The Path That Led Us Here
by DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: Castiel is dead. Dean follows in the footsteps left by his father. The path to Hell is paved with vengeance, booze, and Winchester fury. Cas/Dean
1. Part One

_AN: A S6 AU where Castiel did not team up with Crowley._

_I will only make this statement once. Warnings for this story include: profanity throughout, alcoholism, graphic violence, alternating time lines, medicinal drug use and non nondescript elements of rape. If any of these bother you, I suggest you click back now._

_For the undaunted, I hope you enjoy. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. _

The stink of burning flesh no longer bothers him. He's too used to it by now that he's able to block it out, as if it's not there. It's a smell he's grown up with, beginning with his mother, filled with a string of other people he'd known during his childhood. They were names without faces or faces with no names, but they were people who, at some point during the last twenty five years, had been a blip in the life of Dean Winchester. It didn't seem that long ago that he and Sam had been standing in the woods, near a similar pyre, with the body of their father lying on top.

Back then, he hadn't been able to block out the smell so thoroughly.

It was customary that, in order to have a proper hunter's burial, the deceased's belongings be thrown onto the pyre along with the body. The life was too full of hate and anger that the risk of losing a colleague and gaining a vengeful spirit was too great. Everything that had meant anything needed to be destroyed.

Still, Dean doesn't have the strength in him to throw the worn coat onto the crackling wood. He has it folded, clutched tightly in one hand, pressed against his side. Sam doesn't say anything, and he won't. Dean's grateful.

His mind feels like it's melting and boiling; drowning, in grief and despair and so much anger. He's angry at everything. He wants to scream, to pull out his Glock and shoot the next thing that moves. He wants to get shitfaced at the nearest bar and go home with the first woman who doesn't reject his drunken advances. He wants to jump into the Impala, put the car in gear, and just drive forever. Straight and straight until he hits the Pacific Ocean without ever once glancing in his rearview mirror.

Yet all he can do is just stand there and try not to cry.

He ultimately fails.

The smoke curls up from the wood, like tiny fingers, towards the sky, reaching for the stars and the moon. In a few hours, the fire will die out and there will be nothing left by a pile of ash that the wind will eventually scatter all over the tiny woods he and Sam found. There will be nothing left to say they were ever here, or that one of the greatest friends Dean ever had had existed.

Nothing except for burned pants and a stained coat, with torn lining and broken stitches. He'll take it back to Bobby's, he decides, once he regains the strength to move his legs away from the pyre. He'll take it back and he'll clean it up. The large hole in the back can be sewn up and with the right combination of bleach and ice, the blood will run off. He won't just salvage it, he'll save it.

The scorch marks that stain his pants are another story. He knows he'll have to throw them away eventually.

He looks back up at the stars, millions of them littering the sky, filling his entire line of vision. They are big ones and little ones, some shine blue and others white; some shine brighter than others, stealing the attention away for themselves. The smoke stretches up towards the sky, reaching for a star that Dean thinks is the brightest and bluest in the sky.

_God_, Dean prays for the first time since before his mother died, _Cas was a good angel. The best. Please be good to him. _

There was so much more Dean wants to say, but no words seemed to encompass the entirety of his thoughts and feelings. They are stuck to the tip of his tongue, forgotten and abandoned. It didn't matter, he decides. If God really is omnipotent, then He knows what Dean wants to say, but can't.

Dean hates how quiet it was every time he stood by one of these pyres. He was stuck frozen in time, while the rest of the world continued to move and spin. It wasn't fair that they got to be happy and blissful and ignorant. If they had known what happened today, they would be mourning like he and Sam. They should know; they need to know that today the greatest angel the world ever knew died trying to protect them. Cas deserves so much more than a shitty hunter's funeral, burning in the woods in the middle of fucking nowhere at two in the morning with only two bodies to watch. Dean wants the entire world to grieve with him. He wants to give Cas a magnificent parade, with eulogies and wine and people talking about him and crying, feeling the same emptiness in the pit of their blackened souls that Dean feels. Instead, they get to on living, unaware that tonight two men say goodbye to the best friend either of them ever had; that tonight once again, their lives were shattered and they're left to pick up the pieces again. But the pieces are tiny and sharp and some are lost. They'll never be able to piece it all together again. Something will always be missing.

Dean is thirty years old and he's tired of being left to pick up pieces that don't fit.

"Dean," Sam says. It's the first time he's spoken in hours. Since the warehouse earlier that evening. It sounds foreign, like he's speaking another language, from the bottom of the ocean. Dean thinks he's imagined it for a moment, until Sam speaks again. "Dean, we need to go. We need to tell Bobby."

All Dean can do is nod dumbly. Sam is right. Sam is always right.

As the fire burns out and the crackling stops, Dean remembers the last time he was here, after his father's death.

He hadn't been crying then.

Sam doesn't say anything about the wetness of Dean's face this time and Dean's grateful for that too.

But Sam still has to grab Dean gently by the arm and lead him back to the Impala. He ushers Dean into the passenger's seat, and Dean doesn't complain. He sets the coat onto his lap, turning it around so that he can study the back. He fingers the tear in the fabric. It's nearly five inches long and three inches wide, from where the blade had been twisted. Dean's stomach curls at the memory of the noises that had escaped Cas's mouth in that moment.

When Sam climbs into the driver's seat, Dean places the coat under his feet and leans his head against the window. Sam starts the car and it begins to move. Dean presses his face against the window and looks back up at the stars. He can't find the bright blue star and he thinks he's about to start crying again, but no more tears fall from his eyes.

Grief turns back to anger; it's familiar, comforting.

_I hope you got your ears on Raphael,_ Dean prays hard, digging his fingernails into the flesh of his thigh. _This is Dean Winchester. Tonight, you killed the best friend I ever had. I don't care how long it takes, I will spend the rest of my life hunting you down until I kill you. And I'm gonna make you suffer like you made him suffer. I'm not a lot of things, but I am a man of my word. So wherever you flew you your cowardly ass off to, you better hope it's a place I can't get to. I'm done with people fucking with my family._

888888

Cas is worn down. The light in his eyes isn't as bright, as concentrated. He's not holding himself straight and still, but instead allowed his shoulders to sag and his knees to bend. Yet, he's immensely tense.

"Cas," Dean asks, "what's going on?"

Cas looks at him, but the gaze isn't the piercing gaze Dean is used to. It's faded.

"Stuff not going so good back home, I guess."

Cas sighs. "I believe I may have made a grievous error. "

"What happened?"

Dean listens quietly as Cas speaks and tells Dean of his return to Heaven after Lucifer and Michael were thrown into the Cage.

"Explaining freewill to angels is like trying to teach poetry to fish," he says. "My brothers and sisters were not eager to hear what I had to say on the subject. And then Raphael requested an audience…"

Dean didn't interrupt as Cas told him of his conversation with Raphael and the plan to re-start the Apocalypse.

"He said if I pledged my allegiance to him, I would be welcomed back in Heaven. I refused, of course, but I think that was what he wanted. He was eager to, uh, "teach me a lesson"."

Dean imagines Cas there in Heaven, standing up to his big brother and getting his ass kicked. He's both immensely amused and proud, though his heart flutters at the thought of Cas lying wounded in Heaven, with no one to help him, and then the amusement turns to fury. He and Sammy have fought and wrestled their entire lives, but he can't even imagine hurting Sammy just because he could, because he was stronger, to prove a point. Even with Sam acting the way he has been lately. Raphael's a big brother. Shouldn't he want to protect his baby siblings?

"It's civil war," Cas says. "A few brave hearts have signed on to my cause, but we're horribly outnumbered. And Raphael's an archangel."

"I'll help you," Dean says before he realizes it. "Together we took down Heaven's top dogs. You, me, Sammy—hell, even Bobby. Together, we can take down Raphael."

Cas shakes his head. "It is not fair for you to be burdened with my problems."

"We've burdened you with our problems plenty of times before. Let us repay the favor."

"That was different," his tone is short and clipped. "I was already involved."

"Well, if the fate of the world is at stake, then it's not just your problem. It's my problem too."

A shadow of a smile tugs at the corners of Cas's lips. Dean wonders what it would be like to see Cas really smile, or even laugh. He's always clamped down tightly onto that stick shoved up his ass, but Dean thinks that someone had to make Cas that way. After his mother died, Dad became different and raised Dean to be different. Cas, he thinks, has been a soldier his entire life, just like him. And soldiers are never born. They're always made. What kind of person did Cas used to be, before they beat it out of him at the Angel Academy?

Dean knows that Cas has plenty to be stressed about—the dude could use a couple good night's rest and maybe a few shots of whiskey in between, even if he denied otherwise—but Dean wonders what it would be like to see Cas relaxed and happy.

Probably terrifying, he thinks. He wants to share the joke was Cas, but just barely stops himself. Cas won't get that it's a joke and Dean doesn't want to upset him further than he already is.

Dean swallows. "Cas?"

"Is it okay if I stay here, Dean? For just a little while?"

He's expecting to get kicked out. Dean is revolted by the idea of what tiny whispers are running through Cas' mind that made him ask such a question. Cas doesn't get along with his brothers, and from what interactions Dean's seen between Cas and the other angels, he never has. Baby brother, he thinks. Cas is the baby brother, even if he's never been treated like one. Dean already has Sammy. He can take Cas too. He wants to retort back with a sarcastic quip, but he knows that Cas won't get that either, so Dean's forced to have a chick flick moment and actually speak his actual feelings to Cas.

"Stay as long as you want, Cas. Stay forever."

Dean goes to bed a short while later, and when he wakes up, Cas is nowhere to be seen.

88888

They get back to Bobby's early that morning. Bobby's been expecting them because he's out on the front porch, even though the sun isn't even up yet. Dean wonders when Sam got the chance to call Bobby. Dean knows Bobby knows and if he didn't know better, he'd say Bobby'd been crying.

Sam gets out of the car first. Dean's slow behind because he's unsure of what to do with the coat. He ultimately decides to take it with him. To hell with what Bobby and Sam would think. They both could go fuck themselves with a knife.

He throws it over his shoulder. Neither Bobby nor Sam make any mention of it.

Sam bends down to hug Bobby. Bobby pats him on the back. "It's good to see you, boy," he says, his voice scratchy. He's been smoking again, even though he promised the boys he'd stopped.

"Hey, Bobby."

When they release, Bobby turns to Dean. He doesn't hug Dean, but Dean doesn't mind. He doesn't want to be hugged.

"Don't you just look like hell," he says.

Dean can't bring himself to smile.

Bobby sighs and turns back to Sam. "You get the works done?"  
>"Yeah. All proper and everything."<p>

"That's good. He deserved it."

_He deserved more_, Dean thinks. He chews on the inside of his lip to stop from saying it out loud. He's not angry at Bobby, he reminds himself. This isn't Bobby's fault.

"What's the word on any other angelic activity?" Bobby asks.

Sam shrugs. "Nothing so far. It's been quiet. No news is good news, right?"

"Hell no. Maybe for normal people with their normal lives. Us? No news means something's brewing in the wind. Keep your ears on, both of you."

He turns back to Dean. He clamps his hand down hard on Dean's shoulder and gives it a gentle shake. "He was a good boy, Dean. Now, I know you ain't feeling well. You've both had a shitty night. Come inside and get some rest, the both of you. Maybe I'll have breakfast when you wake up. If I decide to be nice."

"How about we skip the nap and the breakfast and just get to the booze?" Dean asks. Bobby glares at him, but Dean doesn't give a damn.

"I don't know what you're thinking, boy, but you better stop it. You're a dead man walking. I ain't your daddy, but I'm not above of putting you over my knee and smacking some sense into you. You need rest and you need to eat; if the world's about to go topside again, we need to be ready."

"Bobby," Dean says and shrugs, "you know me. I think better when I'm drunk."

"Yeah," Bobby licks his lips. "Yeah, I know. C'mon boys, get inside. Dean—well, who am I to deny a grieving man a drink?"

"Who said anything about grieving? I just haven't had anything to drink in over twelve hours. Look at me, I've already gotten the DTs."

Sam huffs and Bobby glares, but they don't say anything on the subject.

"One drink, then I'm sending both of your asses to bed. And the shower."

One drink turns into several consecutive shots of whiskey and shower and sleep are put off so that Dean can sit on the sofa and watch the Doctor Sexy MD marathon playing. Sam's asleep upstairs and Dean doesn't know where Bobby is, and he doesn't care.

The TV's playing, but Dean's not really watching. He's seen this episode before—the John Doe coma patient is nurse Susan's runaway son—and despite the surplus of liquor swimming through his blood, he's still not drunk enough to properly enjoy it.

He keeps staring at the coat and everything about it feels wrong. It's flat and stained and torn, limp, lifeless—just a regular coat. But it's not a regular coat. And that's what makes it so wrong.

Dean stands up and carries the coat to the kitchen sink. He fills it with ice water and soap and dunks the coat underneath. The ice water stings his skin and after just a few minutes submerged, his fingers are already numb, but he keeps scrubbing at the coat, at the hideous stains that don't belong there. Dean's been staring at the stains and the tears and broken lining and loose stitches for the last ten hours and they're all so wrong. It's like Raphael still has his hands on him. Still cutting into him, slicing and stabbing. He's still got Cas and he's taunting Dean with these stains and tears and broken lining and loose stitches.

Deans scrubs harder. He can't feel his fingertips, as they meld around the aged fabric. He's not sure if they're even there anymore. Perhaps he's lost his hands in the ice water, he thinks fleetingly. He pulls his hands out and dries them on his pants. He hasn't changed them yet; they're still marked with the burns, a shadow of something far grander.

The coat and the burned pants somehow make him insignificant. There was this being once, awesome and grand, that had lived for several thousand years and laid siege to Hell to pull a man from Hell. He had a family once, but they weren't a real family. They were cruel to him because he was different. He was different because he cared, but that made him him. And when his family needed him, he turned his back on them and turned towards a new family he found: a real family, with people who showed him kindness and love.

He fought and killed the brothers that had tormented him since Creation. His disobeyed, the greatest sin for his kind and fell from favor because a Righteous Man asked him for his help.

He helped cast his older brothers down into the Pit for eternity and saved the world he'd loved, the world that had caused him so much pain.

He returned to his true home to try and make amends with the family that hated him. He tried to show them the wonders he had discovered on Earth, wonders he was more than eager to share. He still had faith in them. When they wouldn't listen, he fought for what he believed in.

He gave his life for an alcoholic dropout and an ex-junkie.

And all that was left of him was a stained coat and burned pants. He might've well just died in a back alley.

Dean wonders briefly if Cas was scared during those days when Raphael had him and then decides he doesn't want to know.

He dunks his hands back in. The ice has begun to melt and the water has warmed up minutely. Dean forces himself to scrub a little longer and then he pulls the coat from the water and rinses off the popping suds.

He can't hold back the cry that rips through his throat.

_Ruined…_

The stains aren't gone. They've gotten bigger. They've run and smudged, bleeding down the length of the coat, spreading like a virus. The few parts that had remained virginal were tainted by the running stains.

Dean can't take it. He holds the soaking coat to his chest and slides to his knees. He only wanted to help, to make it better and he just made it worse.

This time he can't hold back the sobs that wrack his body.

888888

Dean doesn't see Cas for two weeks. He's worried sick the entire time. He knows Cas is busy, being the general of a losing army and all, but still. He wants to see Cas. To know he's alive.

He spends the night praying to Cas. It's lonely in the motel room by himself. Since Sam's confession that he hasn't slept since Hell, he doesn't see any reason to keep any charade of normalcy and he goes to fuck off during the time Dean's supposed to be asleep.

His brother is not his brother.

His best friend is fighting an impossible world.

Ben is not his son and Lisa is not his wife and though he loves them, he can never be _in _love with them.

_Cas_ He prays, _I know you're busy_, _but._ He stops the prayers there. What if Cas was fighting right now and Dean was distracting him? What if Cas spared an iota of his attention on Dean's prayer and that got him killed?

Cas always came when he could. If he hadn't come, it meant he couldn't.

_Fighting a war, _Dean thinks. _Fighting for free will for his people. Much more important than just keeping me company. _

_ But what if, _the sinister voice from the back of his head, the lingering from Hell, whispers, _what if he hasn't come because he's dead? What if Raphael's wasted him and pinned his dead body to those pearly white gates?_

The thought is shoved aside hastily, messily, but Dean still can't get the idea out of his head. Raphael had already killed Cas once. Dean remembers going back to Chuck's house and a bloody tooth was all that remained.

For the first time, Dean thinks there's more to this war than just the fight for free will.

He hears the beautifully distinct sound of flapping feathers.

"Cas," he says.

"Hello Dean. I heard your call."

"What if you die?" the words tumble out past his lips before he knows better.

Cas tilts his head. "Raphael wins the war."

"No," Dean says hastily, "I mean, I know that. But. How would I know if you die?"

Cas averts his gaze. "You should not burden yourself with such thoughts."

"Cas," Dean's voice breaks. "Don't talk like that. You're important to me and I'm worried about you."

A shadow of a laugh passes his lips. "You shouldn't."

"Please, Cas," Dean says. "Don't bullshit me. You're scared, aren't you? How would I know if you die?"

"Raphael would probably tell you. He enjoys gloating."

It's not the answer Dean wants to hear; but he knows it's the only one he's going to get. The thought of Cas dying-actually dying, this time—is too much. But the thought of Raphael, the winged dick who started this whole mess being the one to tell him…

He hates hoping. Hoping was passive, inactive. It was waiting. Dean knows that if you want something done, you have to fight for it.

But yet he hopes. He hopes that Cas is right, that it will never come to that.

But he can tell that's what Cas is hoping too.

"I still want to help."

"I find sanctuary knowing that you and Sam are safe down here."

"He wants to restart the Apocalypse, right? So, he needs Sam and I, to be the vessels. He won't kill us."

Cas snorts, huffs out of annoyance. "Has it every occurred to you, Dean, that there are some instances where death is preferable? You remember the pain Zachariah inflicted on you after Lilith? Raphael is far more powerful. He can inflict so much more. I appreciate your concern. I do. But let me have my peace."

Dean nods. "Okay," is all he's able to say at first. After several tense seconds, he nods again. "Okay. We won't get involved."

Cas relaxes slightly. His eyes wander the room. "I would like to stay here for a short while, Dean. May I?"

"Yeah, Cas," Deans tells himself the burn in his throat is from whiskey, even though he's bone sober at the moment, and not the building pressure in his eyes. "You don't ever have to ask."

Dean falls asleep sometime later, while Cas stands by the open window, looking out. When he wakes, Cas is gone.

8888888

Dean's not sure how long he sits on the floor like that, but eventually Bobby comes down. Dean stares at Bobby's worn sneakers, unable to look him in the eyes.

Bobby sighs. "C'mon, Dean. Get to bed. He wouldn't want you torturing yourself like this."

Cas hasn't been dead for a full twenty-four hours and they've already stopped saying his name. Dean wants to them to say his name; to acknowledge that he existed. That he meant something. He was Bobby's friend too. Hell, Bobby had taken him in, just like he took Sam and Dean. An adopted son. Cas is—had been? Was?—family.

But the words die on Dean's lips.

He allows Bobby to usher him up the stairs, to the second guest bedroom, though he vehemently refuses to let go of the coat, almost growling at Bobby like a wounded animal when Bobby tries to take it away.

Bobby resigns, rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath that Dean doesn't understand, before he leaves.

Dean strips off his ruined jeans and looks at them, studies them. They cover the whole area of the crotch, though Dean wasn't ever hurt when—

They don't smell burned either. Dean isn't sure how to describe the smell, unable to find the words to encompass all that it is, but it's entirely _Cas_ and somehow that's enough.

He lies down on the bed and stuffs the damp coat underneath his pillow. His stupor is wearing off, darkness reaching into his mind towards him, inching closer and closer, growing faster and faster, until it overtakes him.

When he's asleep, Dean dreams of blue eyes, wide and shell shocked, staring up at him, and then they're drowned in a blinding white light.


	2. Part Two

Sam wakes him up. Dean can tell he's been asleep for hours because the sun has set and the room is cast into darkness.

"I made dinner," Sam says softly. "And Bobby says if you don't eat, he's gonna tie you down and shove it down your throat with a funnel."

"Not hungry," Dean mumbles into the pillow.

"I don't care. You haven't eaten in like two days. Even if you're not hungry, you gotta eat. And no, I'm not bringing it up here. You can walk your ass down the stairs and sit at the table like a big boy."

Dean glares at Sam, but it's only half-hearted. He's too tired to really give Sam his best bitch face. He gets out of bed slowly and follows Sam down the stairs. The kitchen smells of soup and bread and he has memories of being four and sick and his mom serving him tomato and rice soup in bed.

He's not sick, though.

He sits at the far end of the table, so that he's facing the living room. It's where he's always sat at this table, even when he was little and Dad would dump him and Sam with Bobby for weeks at a time.

But it's not right, because now he's forced to face the empty corner where Cas used to stand, back pressed firmly against the wall, arms over his chest, eyes constantly scanning, observing everything.

Dean looks around Bobby's modest home, cluttered with empty liquor bottles and books stacked in large, messy piles on the floor. The paint is peeling and there are leaks in the roof, creaks in the floor boards, but there had been an instance where Cas needed sanctuary and he had chosen this place.

Out of everywhere in the world, all the Heavens he could've gone, Cas felt safest at the home of Bobby Singer, an old, widowed drunk.

The irony is enough to make him laugh.

Sam and Bobby exchange worried glances. Sam's eyebrows knit together, his lips draw close. Bobby, on the other hand, crinkles his forehead and nose, his baseball cap sliding down right above his eyes.

Dean laughs harder. He can't control it. He's tired and hungry and hung over, but he doesn't want to sleep, and the thought of food makes his stomach churn and god does he want a drink. His body is light, but his head is heavy, pounding, pounding, in tune with the deafening heartbeat in his ears.

He's crying again.

He's never cried this much in his entire life.

He's crying and he's laughing. Sam and Bobby continue to stare at him, but they don't do anything because what can they do? Castiel is dead. Somewhere there's a warehouse with dark stains seared into the floor and there's a bloodied coat under his pillow and burned pants in the trash and he's not standing in the corner where he always stood and he'll never again get to go back to the single place where he felt safe in all of the entire goddamned universe.

"Dean," Sam says when Dean stops for breath, "if you don't want the soup, there's some pie in the fridge. I picked it up just this afternoon."

Dean laughs again and shakes his head. "I don't want any," he pushes the bowl of soup away and untouched. The taste of salt is still fresh on his lips. He laps it up and then laughs some more, harder, until his side hurts.

"You're not going to bed until you eat something, and shower. You're stinking up my whole house," Bobby says.

Dean stops laughing and looks Bobby straight in the eye. He huffs, a shadow of a laugh; the humor is gone now. All that's left are the tears. "You were right earlier," he says. "You're not my dad." He stands up, the chair screeching across the linoleum floor and begins to head for the door.

"Dean, wait," Sam says, grabbing him by the shoulder. Dean rips of out Sam's grip and picks up his car keys off the key ring. "Where the hell are you going?"

"He ain't going nowhere," Bobby snaps. "Boy, sit your ass back down and eat."

"I'm not hungry," Dean says and he opens the door.

"Well, wherever you're going, I'm coming with," Sam says.

Dean stops and glances back over his shoulder. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "I don't think so, Sammy. C'mon, don't look at me like that. I'm only going for a drive. Give me two hours. I'll be back."

Sam stands stiffly on the porch, his face contorted into the best bitch face Dean has ever seen. He rolls his eyes towards Bobby, who huffs. "Two hours, Dean. If you're not back in two hours, I'm coming after you."

"That won't be necessary, you'll see," Dean smiles and climbs into the driver's seat. He turns the ignition on and the stereo comes to life with the engine. Instead of playing Dean's usual cassette tapes, it's playing the radio, some indie rock station that Sam had been listening to when he went out earlier.

_It's too cold for angels to fly_

Dean punches the radio to turn it off. He hopes Sam and Bobby hadn't seen that, and he doesn't stay around long enough to find out. He puts the car in drive and floors it out of the Singer Salvage yard.

The drive only takes him half an hour, but setting up the devils trap and hex box take another twenty minutes. Dean's hands are shaking violently. The lines are not as neat as they could be. Some are thicker than others, and he stains his hands more than he should have, but he gets it done. The pentagram is wide enough to give Dean the berth he'll need. Dean buries the box in the middle of the trap and pats the dirt down neatly. He stands up and feels the presence behind him.

"To what do I owe this displeasure, Squirrel?"

Dean turns around to face Crowley.

"Oh, my," Crowley's lips pucker, his eyebrows furrow. "Don't you look just awful, darling."

"I want Cas back."

Crowley smiles, revealing a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. He laughs. It's soft and gentle, teasing. The glaze of his accent makes it charming even, and that infuriates Dean.

Dean frowns and digs his fingernails into the flesh of his thigh. He has to resist every urge to deck Crowley. To beat his face in, till his skin is painted red and those damned perfect teeth fall out in a pile atop the dirt. He has to resist, though. Crowley's a demon. He's only a man. Crowley can't leave the devils trap, but he could still hurt Dean inside it if he wanted.

"Thank you, darling," Crowley says. "That laugh was worth the trip up top. Was that all? Because, fun as this had been, I do have a boiling pit of despair and agony to run."

"You bring Cas back, and give me one year, and then this fine piece of ass is Hell's once more. That's the deal."

Crowley tilts his head. It's so Cas-like, Dean feels a wave of fury overcome him like a tsunami. It takes every iota of self control not to deck Crowley. Dean's more patient than he had previously thought.

"No deal, Mandel. Sorry, I'll take case number two. Now, what else can I do for you?"  
>"Stop fucking around, Crowley. My soul for Cas's life. That's the deal. Now, pucker up and make with the demon mojo."<p>

He steps closer to Crowley. Crowley sizes him up with his eyes.

"My, my, aren't we eager? I already have a girlfriend, though, Squirrel, so I'm going to have to pass on that kiss."

Dean does deck Crowley this time, sending the King of Hell straight on his ass. He bends down over Crowley, fire burning in his eyes. Crowley meets his gaze, unintimidated.

"Oh," Crowley says, licking his lips, erasing a blossom of blood, "you really don't get it, do you?"

"I get that you're fucking with me, because you're an evil son-of-a-bitch. But this ain't about me, Crowley. In fact, this has absolutely nothing to do with me. You're gonna work your demon mojo magic and in one year, you, and every other rotten demon filth in Hell gets to lay their hands on this sweet piece of ass. All you have to do is ring Cas's feathery ass down from Heaven."

"Therein lies the problem, darling," Crowley spits. "Castiel isn't in Heaven—oh, wipe that look of your face, I _wish_ he was in Hell. Never tasted angel before, always been curious to try. You see, Castiel's nowhere. Not Heaven, not Hell, or Earth or anywhere that's anywhere. He's just gone."

"You're lying." The back of his throat tastes like acid.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

_You have to be._

"You know I'm not. Angels are the red-headed step children of the Universe. They don't have souls. Humans—they either go to Heaven or Hell, depending on how good they were. Ghosts, too, once their spirits have been lain to rest. Monsters go to Purgatory, demons back to Hell—they were human once, after all; but angels don't go anywhere. Once an angel dies, he's gone forever. Simply ceases to be, like he was never even there in the first place."

"You're lying," Dean's about to start crying again. How can Cas just be _gone?_ How can he be soulless? He remembers Sam without his soul—cold, cruel, distant. Cas had never been any of those things. Cas had felt. Cas had loved. Cas had made his own decisions and he had fought for what he believed in. He had to have a soul.

A new hatred for God boils in the pit of his stomach. The angels were His children, Cas was His son. If Crowley was telling the truth…How could God bring Cas back to life after the smiting and Lucifer, only to turn His back on him in the ultimate end?

No.

Crowley was lying. He was a demon and he was lying because that's what demons did.

"I know you've only got a fifth grade education, darling, but even you're not that damp. Tell me, what'd Castiel do to get on God's naughty list? Poor bastard's died twice already—very painfully, I've noticed—and the Big Man brought him back. Why not this time? Daddy dearest finally get tired of the little brat? Or was it all just His will?"

"Shut up."

"Every demon north of the border knew what dear little Castiel was up to. It gave us all a nice laugh to have by our water fountains. Tiny, Fallen Castiel going up against the big brother—someone call Adam Sandler, it's a blockbuster in the making."

"Shut. Up."

"Maybe God got tired of tiny, Fallen Castiel fucking everything up and He's glad to be done with the bastard. The Prodigal son can only come back home so many times and Castiel was about to run away again."

"Shut up!"

Dean pulls his pistol from his back pocket and lodges a bullet into Crowley's shoulder. Crowley flinches at the impact, cries in pain.

"But Squirrel, we didn't even come up with a safe word!"

"Next time it'll be the Colt," he snarls. The only reason he hadn't brought the Colt with him was because he was sure he wouldn't need it. He was sure any demon would've jumped on the chance to molest his soul. The thought that Crowley wouldn't had strayed through his mind, but his pride was worthless now, and he would've groveled if he had to.

The thought that Crowley wouldn't help him because he just couldn't had never entered his mind.

Crowley gets to his feet, dusts off his jacket. "I'm still punishing the demons, you know," he says and Dean immediately knows what he's talking about and he goes for his gun again, because he doesn't want to think about it, but for some reason he can't make himself shoot. "It was made absolutely clear to all demons that they were to stay out of Heaven's affairs. Their actions aligned them with Raphael and well, even I'm not that heartless to condone what they did."  
>Dean remembers Cas crying and it still feels wrong and rotten. Cas coming to him, not for safety or company, but comfort. He doesn't want to remember. Doesn't want to be reminded of all the ways he failed Cas, of all the ways he allowed Raphael to break Cas.<p>

He digs his heel through the spray pain, erasing a bit just large enough to break the seal. "Go," he barks.

"For what it's worth," Crowley says, "I'm terribly disappointed he's dead. I was rooting for him to win the war. He was much more preferred to rule Heaven than Raphael. More of a pushover, you know?"  
>"Go!" Dean yells.<p>

Crowley's gone in an instant.

Dean stands alone for twenty seconds before his knees give and he falls to the ground. He can't bring himself to stand, or even sit, so he lays down on his side and stares up at the sky.

It's too cloudy to see the stars.

Precisely one hour later, he hears the roar of Bobby's truck pull up next to the Impala, the slam of a car door, Sammy's distinct, loud footsteps.

"Dean!" Sam is kneeling down by him, hands firmly pressed on his shoulders. Bobby is standing beside him. "What did you do?"  
>"Nothing," he says softly.<p>

"Who did you talk to? Crowley? Bobby, set the trap again, we're calling him back up here—"

"Sam," Dean says loudly, "Sammy. I didn't do anything. He wouldn't deal."  
>Sam's panting. He slaps Dean straight across the face. "Damn it, Dean! Don't you ever frigging scare me like that again! What the hell do you think you're doing, trying to make deals? <em>We <em>had a deal! We promised each other no more demon deals."

"He wouldn't deal."  
>Sam sighs and gets off of Dean. He rubs his face hard with his hands. Dean glances up at him and realizes he's crying. His heart drops into his stomach. Everyone's been crying a lot, himself included.<p>

"Do you think he's in Heaven?"

"What?"

"Crowley said Cas isn't in Heaven. He says he's gone. What do you think? God would let Cas into Heaven, right? Crowley was just lying?"  
>Sam hesitates for a moment, before nodding. "Of course he's in Heaven. He's an angel. And Crowley—you know demons lie. Crowley and Cas were always at each other's throats to begin with." He stands shakily to his feet and bends down, taking Dean's hand. "C'mon, Dean. You need to eat and you need a good night's sleep. A real night's sleep. No drugs, no alcohol. We brought you your soup. Got it all packed in a thermos for you, so it's still hot." He pulls Dean to his feet. "Please just eat a little bit. For me?"<p>

Dean looks at his younger brother, sees the worry in his eyes, the stress lines deepening his skin. Bobby looks like he's aged ten years in the two hours Dean's been gone. He can't stand to think of the pain he's put them through, but he couldn't just not do anything. He had to try. He was so tired of losing his family. Mom, Dad, Pamela, Ellen, Jo, Ash.

Castiel.

They all had been ripped away from violently, each taking a piece of himself with them. Each death, Dean became less and less of a person. He tried to fill the gaps with alcohol and sex, but they were only temporary and the hangovers he felt the mornings following a particularly bad night were the closest thing to a physical manifestation of how his heart felt all the time.

He wishes he had never been born. Or, at the very least, that he had died all those years ago after the semi accident. He wishes he had gone with Tessa the first chance he got. He wishes that Dad hadn't made that deal with Azazel, his soul for Dean's. Everyone Dean Winchester ever knew was doomed to die a horrific, painful death.

"Dean?"

He looks up at Sam. He wonders how much time has passed since Sam last spoke. It feels like years.

"You got any of that pie in there?"

888888

Dean hates wendigos. They're fast, elusive, mean and god, do they smell. He's already taken a scalding shower, but he can still smell the stench on himself and it makes his stomach turn in revulsion.

Sam is unaffected by the smell and blood that coats him, but then Sam's been unaffected by pretty much everything since Hell.

Side effect of being soulless, Dean thinks.

He keeps his eyes on his brother as much as he can-on what he thinks is his brother, at least. He's still not completely sure what exactly this thing is parading around in his brother's body, but he's already prepared himself for the worst possible scenario.

It's like when Lucifer wore him. Dean can look at him at know at the surface that it's not Sam, but there's something underneath, way deep, that makes Dean hesitate. Even when it was Lucifer he was talking too, and Lucifer he was looking at, Dean could still feel Sam in there.

It's not as strong now as it was then, but it's there. Dean's prepared to kill this thing should it turn out not to be his brother.

But he can't shush the voices that tell him it is Sam and this is just how he's going to be now.

There's a loud crash to his right. The lights flicker for a single moment and then come back on with a whine.

Dean jumps up off the motel bed, pistol already drawn and pointed at the noise. Sam follows suit, but Dean catches sight of a familiar tan and he relaxes, holstering his gun back into his belt loop.

His blood runs ice cold.

"Cas?"  
>Cas is lying face down on the carpet and doesn't appear to be able to move. Dean rushes towards him and grabs him by his arm. He tries to lift him up, but the angel is dead weight, barely conscious, so Dean calls for Sam to help him. Sam grabs Cas's other arm and together the two of them get him onto the closest bed, flat on his back.<p>

Dean's breath catches in his throat.

The right side of Cas's face is coated in slick blood. Bruises are painted underneath both eyes, his nose is twisted—clearly broken—and his lip is split clear down the middle.

Dean gets onto his knees and runs a hand through Cas's bloody hair, fingers stopping when they come in contact with something that screams _wrong._ Dean doesn't want to look at it yet.

"Cas?" He whispers softly.

Cas's eyes flicker open. They're dazed and frightened, but locked onto Dean with such admiration Dean finds himself wordless.

"Dean?" It's barely audible.

"Cas, what the hell happened?"

Cas's eyes leave Dean and track around the room, scanning every corner, every crack in the ceiling and walls. "Where am I?"

Dean's fingers curl into Cas's hair. "Washington," he says. "Just outside Seattle. What happened, Cas?"

"I don't know how I got here."

Okay, that's bad—head injury; but Dean knows he can't let that worry sink through to Cas. Cas needs him to be calm.

"That's okay," Dean says. "You got here, that's what's important. You're safe. Sammy and I will protect you."

"Safe," the world rolls off his tongue, slowly and unfamiliar. His eyes waft over Dean once more. "You smell horrendous."

Dean chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "Is that you talking or just the concussion?"

Cas's eyes squint hard. "Where am I?"

Dean's heart falls straight into his stomach. "Sam, get your ass over here. I need to check out his head." Dean turns on the nearby lamp as Sam kneels down next to him. He can see a spot where Cas's hair is tangled and matted to his head. He reaches over and peels it away, but the blood acts like a glue to his skin.

A low moan emits from the back of Cas's throat.

"Shit, shit, I'm sorry, Cas, I'm sorry," he mumbles, but his mind is screaming at him. _Gotta do it, gotta do it._

When the hair is peeled away, Dean's facing the wound and it takes all his self control not to turn around and vomit.

"That's brain," Sam quips in nonchalantly. He whistles, like he's fucking amused and Dean's head spins.

_That is not my brother that is not my brother._

"Hello, Sam."

"Looks like it really hurts too."

Dean gathers the courage to look back at the wound. He can see the gray matter, a golf ball sized hole burned into Cas's skull. There are bone fragments lodged into the folds and blood seeps out like molasses.

"Jesus, Cas, how did this happen? Did Raphael do this?" It's a stupid question, because who else could have possibly done this?  
>Cas looks up towards the ceiling. "I-I don't know."<p>

Dean's panicking, but he can't let Cas know that. He needs to keep calm for Cas. "Okay. That's okay. You know, it's not actually that bad. Probably looks worse than it feels, right?"

"You must've seriously pissed someone off. How are you still alive?" Sam says. "Angel or not, it takes serious power to spilt the skull like that."

"You can heal that, right?" Dean says quickly. He doesn't need Sam upsetting Cas. He needs Cas calm.

Cas reaches up with his hand to touch at the wound, but Dean catches him by his wrist before he can. He swallows. Dean watches as the lump descends down his throat.

"Yes," he says eventually. "Yes, I can….I can heal it. Just need time."

"Is there anything you need? Or want? Some water, at least?"

Cas's eyes are towards him, but they're not looking at him. The intense, soul piercing gaze Dean has come to expect (something he learned to become fond of) is gone. Rather, Cas is looking past him, but yet nothing in particular.

"Well," Sam says, "now we know that angels can get concussions. That'll be useful."  
>"Shut up!" Towards Cas, his tone softens. "Cas? Water?"<br>Cas's eyes snap towards him, gaze direct, like a lasso. "No," he says, slowly, "no. That. That will. That will not be. Not be necessary."

His back arches, his fingers curl into the bed sheets. Sweat shines on his forehead. "I just. Just need. Rest."

"And then you'll be able to heal that?" Dean's not a doctor, but he can smell infection pilfering the grotesque wound. It's been several minutes and it has not changed. Dean's watched Cas shrug off bullet and stab wounds, stumble off burns, come back from being exploded and walk off falling out a ten story window. Every incident involving injury, all it seemed to take was Cas giving an iota of attention to the wound and it healed.

"Yes." Talking is obviously expending too much energy.

"Just keep quiet, Cas. Focus on resting and healing."

Cas nods and closes his eyes. Dean runs his hands through his own hair.

Sam stands up. "I'm going to shower. Stay out of my bed, Dean. Just because I don't sleep doesn't mean I don't like laying down. You can share with Mr. Comatose."

Dean snorts and shakes his head. It's the most Sam-like thing he's heard from this thing's mouth since they were re-united. He climbs into the opposite side of the bed. Cas really doesn't take up that much room. He stays flat on his back, keeps his arms by his side. Dean turns so that he's on his side and can keep his eyes on Cas; on his chest, rising and falling.

"Just focus on healing Cas," Dean mumbles. "You'll be okay. I promise."

It comes out through a bated breath, stumbling past Cas's lips. "Safe," he murmurs.

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes, sunlight is bleeding through the thin curtains. The bed is lighter than he remembers, and recollection slowly sinks back into him.

Cas is gone.

There is still a patch of dried blood on his pillow.

888888

Sam drives the Impala back to Bobby's. Deans sits quietly in the passenger's seat, the thermos of soup held tightly in both hands. Every now and then, he takes a sip. The warm liquid slowly crawls down his throat before dropping into his stomach. His stomach twists at the intake, but Dean doesn't voice his complaints. He's doing this for Sammy. He doesn't want to upset Sammy.

"You kissed him," Sam says after a long stretch of silence.

Dean sighs and places the thermos in the cup holder. He glances out the window, at the stars that aren't there.

"Yeah."

It was cold and it was lifeless, but most importantly, it was too late. Dean waited and waited and denied and denied everything underneath his skin that screamed whenever he saw Cas; he shut out the voices in his head that spoke whenever Cas was near, ignored the standing of his hairs whenever Cas spoke and refused to acknowledge the calming aura Cas's presence had.

But he'd never been able to ignore the fury that raced through his veins when he saw Cas injured, or the desire to kill whenever Cas mentioned Raphael's name. The need to protect this holy, powerful being that Dean could never even fully comprehend in its entirety never went away.

"He loved you, too, you know."

"I know."

He did. He watched idly as Cas fell from grace and abandoned his faith in the Father that was never there. Watched as everything Cas knew, had known, fell apart around him, with no one to help him pick up the pieces. Watched as Cas turned from his Father and his brothers towards him for guidance, with adoration, devotion, worship and unfathomable love. A love that made him uncomfortable because he didn't deserve it. He was an angry, hedonistic, orphaned, godless alcoholic. He didn't deserve the love of a woman and he certainly didn't deserve the bottomless love an angel had to offer.

It never would've worked, anyway. Cas may not have gotten along with his family, but he still cared about them far more than he should have. Loving Dean Winchester would mean abandoning his family for good and Cas could never do that.

And Dean would never ask that Cas do that. He understood better than anyone the meaning of family.

The angels didn't deserve Cas's fierce loyalty and unwavering devotion.

_Raphael. I'm coming for you, Raphael. Don't get too comfortable on that throne of yours, you gigantic dick. All you angels think you're so smart, but you're actually some of the biggest dumbasses I've ever met. Pissing me off is the biggest mistake you could've ever made._

Dean half expects Raphael to appear beside him; and Dean would be okay with that. He wants the chance to kill that son of a bitch, to skewer his heart just like how he skewered Cas's. He'll make sure it's a slow and agonizing death. He'll use everything he learned in Hell until Raphael begs Dean to kill him.

And maybe Dean will do it.

But probably not.

_You didn't stop when Cas asked you to stop. You just kept going. I know what you did to him, you son of a bitch. _

His anger dissipates suddenly. Dean glances at Sam.

_He was your little brother. How could you do that to him?_

"Dean."

Dean's head snaps.

"Eat your soup before it gets cold."

Dean reaches for the thermos, but his hand stops just above it. His fingers curl inwards. Bobby's house is ten minutes away and Dean doesn't know what he'll do once he gets there.

"That was really stupid, what you were going to do."

"Had to try," the words slip past his lips quietly, robotically. He's not sure he's the one who said them.

"He was my friend too, Dean."

But you're not grieving, Dean thinks. You haven't even cried.

Somehow, Dean still takes death harder than Sam does. Maybe it's because he has seen more.

Or maybe it's because he's the one with the curse. Sam's already died once and Dean still remembers the terror, the despair and the immense loneliness that washed over him. He swore that nobody could make him feel like that, except Sam.

That was just under two years before he met Cas.

Four years before he would learn how wrong he was.

"You need to burn the coat."  
>"I'm not—"<p>

"You have to burn everything, Dean. It's respectful."  
><em>You should show me some respect.<em>

Dean's mouth dries slowly, like a dying flower in the desert sun. "No," he says. "It'd be sacrilege. That coat was the only thing he ever seemed to like."

"It's not right, Dean. I know….it's fucked up, yeah, I know. But we need to keep alert in case the other angels start stirring shit up again. We need to be on our best game and we can't do that if—"

"Stop talking, Sam."

"I'm just saying, we have to be prepared for the worst."

But the worst has already happened.

He doesn't remember walking back into Bobby's house, or pilfering the liquor cabinet, but when he comes to, he's lying on the living room floor with a pounding headache. His vision is fuzzy and his mouth is dry. He's aware of the two sets of feet beside him, voices caught in the thick air. He can't make out what they're saying, but he can tell by the tones that they're angry. Probably at him, he thinks. It wouldn't be the first time.

Someone touches him. He recoils.

"Dean," a voice chokes out. Sam. "Dean, we're not doing this. You can't do this. I can't do this!"

"Calm down, Sam." Bobby.

"Calm down? Bobby, he's gonna kill himself!"

"No, he ain't. We just gotta keep our eyes on him. You keep him distracted while I hide the stash someplace he won't find."

"You better hide it good, old man," Dean slurs. "Cause I will find it, you know."

Bobby huffs and walks away. "Just go ahead and try, boy. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I'm a hell of a lot sharper than you."

He isn't able to find where Bobby stashed the alcohol, but he did find Bobby's secret stash of cigarettes and that's enough for Dean at the moment.

The hangover still throbs in his temples and the nicotine sucks all the moisture out of his mouth, leaving behind an ashy taste. He draws a deep drag and blows the smoke out through his nose. He's already on his third cigarette and it's only been an hour.

He hasn't smoked since he was eighteen. He used to go through a pack a day back then, scouring whatever he could from Dad and Bobby and the drug stores. He kept his packs hidden underneath his pillow and would light up in the motel bathrooms, careful to keep the fan blowing and the smoke near the vent. He got really good at finishing off a cigarette within just a few minutes. He had to keep it short, otherwise Dad would've found out and had his ass.

Looking back on it now, he laughs at how his Dad did finally find out. It was a vampire hunt in Mississippi and after they decapitated the freak, Dad had wanted to burn it, for good measure. But it had been raining the entire week they'd been hunting the thing and all the grass and wood was soaking wet, they couldn't get it to burn. Dad had stolen his pillow case out of the Impala and was going to stuff the head inside it, but when he pulled it out of the car, Dean's cigarettes fell out onto his feet. He didn't say anything at the time—Sam had been right there, watching—but the moment Dad got him alone, he turned red faced and hit Dean clear across the face just once.

He made Dean sit down outside and smoke an entire cartoon of Marbolos and Dean got so sick, he couldn't stand without getting dizzy for three days. Afterwards, he couldn't even smell cigarette smoke without immediately becoming nauseous for years.

The cigarette burns out and Dean flicks the butt away, somewhere in the salvage yard. He rests his elbows on his knees and stares forwards.

His gives Bobby credit for his hiding spot—underneath a fake bottom in his oversized desk. Dean almost passed by them completely, but then he noticed the unusual lack of dust inside the drawers and had to investigate.

He is amazed at how easy it was to start smoking again. It was like he never even stopped.

A week later, he finds Bobby's stash of Jack Daniels hidden underneath the hood of a totaled '79 Ford Mustang. He carries the stash up to the bedroom he's been squatting in for the last several days and sits on the bed, the bottle laying out in front of him. He stares at it wordlessly for two hours before he breaks.

Sometime later, Sam finds him passed out on the floor, wearing the bloodied coat as a blanket.

"I found us a case," Sam says, leaning over his computer. It's a Tuesday morning. Bobby's house smells like eggs and sausage. Dean's stomach is empty, but churns with acidity anyways. Before him sits an untouched cup of coffee that's already gone cold. "This small town in Idaho, just past Boise. Lots of lightening storms and cattle deaths. Pretty tell signs of a demon. If we leave now, we can be there by—"

"Let Rufus do it," Dean says.

Sam blinks. "Rufus doesn't deal with demons as often as we do. Besides, it'll be good to get out and back into—"

"The life?"

Sam smacks his lips. "Yeah."

Dean smiles sardonically. There must be a God, he decides, because only God could have such a sense of humor. Sam had left the life for good the second he turned eighteen and was prepared to turn back on Dad and Dean and the life forever and he stayed out for four years until Dean dragged him back in kicking and screaming for that woman in white case.

Dean was prepared to let him go after that. To let walk him back into that apartment in Stanford and never come out.

Dean dragged him kicking and screaming, but Jessica's death shoved him back in.

How did it come that Castiel's death would kick Dean out?

"We have work to do," Sam says. "You know. Saving people, hunting things. The family business, right?"

Dean takes a sip of his coffee and hides his grimace. It's bitter. "Yeah."

Sam doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to.

They still don't leave for the hunt until the next day, though.


	3. Part Three

Somewhere along the way, Dean and Sam get separated. Dean strolls down the dark hallway, the Colt held firmly in his hand. He doesn't make a single move as he places one foot in front of the other, nimble as a cat. He thinks he hears a noise to his right and raises the gun in that direction.

There's nothing but his own shadow. His shoulders sag, but he tightens his grips on the gun.

Frigging demons, hiding like spineless, pathetic, worthless pieces of putrid _scum!_

Frigging Sam, can't stay two steps behind without getting lost, leaving him to find the demon scum by himself!

It's been a long time since he's had to hunt down a demon. Back during the Apocalypse, they were always too eager to approach him, with promises of a slow and painful death and a one-way trip back down to the Pit, permanently this time, where Alastair was waiting for him, his favorite pupil.

_How long will you hold out the second time, dearie? _He hears Alastair's voice, a seductive whisper hidden back inside his brain, wormed into his sulcus, forever trapped. _Longer, you think? Want to know what I think?_

Dean yells at the voice inside his head to shut the fuck up; his temples throb in sync with his racing heartbeat. He shouldn't be scared, because it's just a lowly demon and he's killed dozens of those and he's seen scarier stuff in his toilet after a night of booze and bad bar food; hell, he saw John Winchester angry beyond belief, pissed beyond any sense of recognition—not even the Devil himself was able to compare to the memories seared into Dean's brain of his father, drunk and pissed off at everything and everyone and he survived with only minimal damage to his sense of self-worth and enough daddy issues to sate the thirst of any parched therapist for life.

He is not scared.

But he still can't turn the voice off.

_You won't be able to last forever. You'll say yes again, eventually. Everyone does. You'll be down in the Pit forever this time, dearie, with only me for company. Your angel won't be saving you this time. Poor little birdy couldn't even save himself in the end._

There's something behind him. Dean spins around, biting into his tongue to hold back a cry of unadulterated fury. He holds the gun at eye level, safety off and has his finger on the trigger, prepared to shoot without a single word and he presses down—

"Jesus, Dean!"

He aims the gun at the ceiling at the last second, too late to pull off the trigger. The narrow hallway fills with the sharp crack as the bullet hits the ceiling; dust falls from the sky, coating Dean's hair and jacket. It rolls down his face and only narrowly avoids getting his eyes.

"Sam?"

"What the fuck man? You don't just—you shouldn't—you know better than that!"

"Sam?"

Sam sighs and rubs his face with his hands. He walks towards Dean and rips the Colt out of Dean's hands. Dean doesn't offer any fight. "I'll take the gun. You can take the blade." He shoves the demon blade into Dean's hands clumsily. It's lighter than the gun and Dean has to readjust to the weight in his hand.

"Where did you go?"

"Where did I go? You were the one who went off on your own! Good God, I had my back turned for two seconds and you were gone! You gave me a heart attack, Dean! You can't just go off on your own like that."

Sam's pants fill the narrow hallway. More dust falls from the ceiling. Dean's tongue is thick in his mouth and when he swallows, he feels like it's going to roll down into his stomach.

"Come on," Sam says after several tense moments of silence. He pushes past Dean and takes the lead. "It has to be here somewhere."

Dean tails behind Sam, turning the blade over his hand. Handle, blade. Handle, blade. He lets the blade linger on the skin of his palm and presses in with his fingers curled. It pierces the skin, but Dean makes no noise as he feels his blood drip onto the cold, concrete ground in small whispers of _pitter patter. _

_Oh, Dean-o, such a good boy. Little cut like that doesn't hurt a bit._

_ Shut up!_ It takes all of his self-control not to say it out loud. _You're dead!_

_ For a demon, that just puts me back in Hell, Dean-o. I can't go topside anymore, but I'm surely not gone. Not like your little birdy—_

"Shut up!"

He runs into Sam's front—he'd turned around at Dean's outburst and he looks down on Dean with bitchface number ten.

"Dean, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean spits. He goes to walk around Sam, but Sam grabs him harshly by his shoulder and holds him still. Dean tries to pull out of Sam's grip, but his little brother doesn't let go. "Let me go."

"Dean-"

"I said let me go!" He rips out of Sam's grip this time and staggers forward. "Let's just find this SOB and get out of here, okay?"

Sam doesn't retort back and they continue forward. Dean smells the sulfur in the air and grips tightly on the knife. He hears the demon before he sees it. It lunges at him from his right flank, tackling him to the ground. He hears Sam call his name.

The demon is on top of him, strangling him with one hand, pinning the blade welding hand down with the other. It's wearing a middle-aged man with graying hair and steel eyes. Dean thinks for a fleeting second that the poor bastard was probably a doctor or a fireman or something noble like that. He has the build for it: tall, muscular.

Dean can't get the knife through the bastard's throat and Sam won't risk shooting the thing with Dean still under him.

"Dean Winchester," steel eyes flicker to coal black and a leering smile spreads across the demon's face, something akin to the Joker's. "The Righteous Man," he purrs. "It's an honor to meet you."

Dean's head spins from the lack of oxygen. He kicks his legs wildly, blindly. His vision ebbs away slowly. The demon is laughing.

"Sammy," he chokes out, eyes searching for his brother. He begs Sam silently to just shoot, to not worry about him. The demon is what's important, not him. The demon needs to come before him.

He knows Sam won't shoot, though.

The demon loosens his grip around Dean's throat. Dean sucks in a gasp of air and starts to choke on it. He sputters and turns his head, still kicking.

He hits something soft and elicits a groan of surprise. Dean kicks again, harder and is able to push the demon off him. Now, he's on top of the demon and has the blade pressed against its throat.

Black eyes stare up at him, not in fear, but adoration. Its smile widens.

"Dean Winchester, bringer of the Apocalypse. To die by your hands, is an honor worthy of only the greatest of warriors."

"That's what this was all about, huh?" Dean snarls, pressing the blade deeper into the demon's skin. It hisses in pain, but the smile never leaves its face. Masochistic _bastard._ Dean's not sure why he hasn't killed the thing yet. If this were any other day, any other nameless, faceless demon, they would be dead, eyes rotted out and mouth agape on the floor.

This thing is still breathing, still talking and Dean doesn't know why.

"This was just all about me killing you? Making a statement to you people? Walking towards death doesn't make you a warrior, you freak. It doesn't make you brave or strong or smart, it makes you stupid. You're not a martyr."

"No, I'm not," the demon says. "That's you. And your little birdy, of course—"

Dean smashes the demon's head into the concrete and he rips the blade across the demon's neck. Blood shoots out like a hose, spraying Dean in the face.

The demon's not dead, though. It's still alive, choking on its own blood, shaking like in a seizure. Dean knows the only way to kill a demon is to skewer its heart and he has no intentions of doing that—if being killed by Dean Winchester was an honor in the demon world, he'd never kill another demon again. He'd do just this to them: cut them and let them bleed and bleed and bleed and never die.

"Never saw him myself," the demon manages out, as blood spills out past his lips, "but I've heard the stories. Pretty birdy, they said—"

Dean stabs the demon in the stomach. The demon lurches forwards, inhaling in agony and its head slams back down on the concrete hard, with a resonance that echoes in the narrow hallway.

The demon is gritting his teeth together, so hard Dean wonders how the molars are still in one piece.

"Wish I coulda been there that day—oh what I would've done for a taste of him!"

The blade is inserted in the demon's right eye. Dean digs it in deep as it will go and twists and twists. He hears Sam screaming at him, but he can't make out the words and he realizes he doesn't care. These are the same bastards who made him back in Hell and it's only fair that they get to share in the pain he inflicted on those thousands of poor, damned souls.

When he pulls the knife out, the eye comes with it.

There's a single shot and the demon's screams stops. Sam's breathing fills the empty space, gun outstretched and aimed at the demon's heart.

He drops the gun to the floor and scrambles over to Dean.

"Dean! Dean!"

Dean drops the knife to the floor. It lands with a soft clack and the eye falls off and rolls into the far corner of the room.

Sam pulls him to his chest and is muttering. Dean can't make out the words, but he lets himself fall into Sam's embrace, even though it's wrong. He's the big brother. It's his job to take care of Sam, not the other way around. Twenty six years ago, Dad told him to take care of Sammy, told him to protect Sammy at all costs and it was always his responsibility to make sure that Sammy had enough to eat and got enough sleep and whenever he had a nightmare, it was Dean's job to hold him and tell him it was going to be all right, even if Dean didn't believe it himself.

He's shaking in Sam's grip. Sam pulls him closer. He wants to bury himself in Sam, hide himself from the world. He wants to bundle into a cocoon and never leave. He wants to just lay down and die.

Sam cards his hands through Dean's blood soaked hair. Dean's entire body is saturated with the sticky, warm liquid. He remembers the days when Sam was addicted and would do anything for his next hit, even betray his brother and saunter around with a demon. He remembers the horrible, horrible days of detox, Sam's screams still echoing in his mind all these years later.

Sam holds him now, soaked in the substance that he once craved more than life, love and his brother's acceptance and his nose doesn't even twitch.

"It's all right, Dean," Sam whispers. "It'll be all right, you'll see."

Dean's ashamed for letting this happen, for letting Sam see him like this. He's too far past his breaking point to reel in, and now he has no choice but to let it all come out, even if it doesn't make sense, even if Sam has no idea what he's blabbing.

The demon wanted to be killed by Dean Winchester, but instead was done in by Sam. Dean wonders if demons consider that just as honorable a death.

Dean doesn't know how long they stay like that, but it's only after he's stopped crying and his breathing has resorted to gentle wheezing that Sam grips his shoulder—his left shoulder—and coaxes him to his feet. Sam collects the demon blade and the Colt and stuffs booth into his belt loop. He leads Dean out of the building, wordlessly and when they reach the Impala, he opens the door to the back seat and Dean crawls in without protest, laying face first into the worn leather.

Sam pulls something over him, something warm—the coat, he realizes with a belated though—and he grips it tight, pulling it over his head.

It's still bloodied and torn and frayed, but it's warm and dark underneath and that's all Dean needs right now.

The Impala vibrates with life as Sam turns on the ignition and begins the drive back to Bobby's house. There's no radio, no conversation. Just the roar of the engine and Dean's own thoughts fill the empty space.

Alastair's voice still worms its way into Dean's thoughts. Dean can hear the smirk in every word, see the taunting smile and the white glazed eyes.

_Little birdies can survive without their wings, Dean-o. But what kind of life is that?_

888888

"I do not understand," Cas says. "What is problematic with my current attire?"

"Dude," Dean says, clapping Cas firmly on the shoulder, "you look like you're ready to do my taxes, not fight for the sake of humanity. And besides, you can't seriously be comfortable in that all the time!"

Cas tilts his head and Dean has to smother the grin that plagues his face.

"C'mon, man, at least try them on." He stuffs the pile of clothes he bought into Cas's hands. Cas stares down at them dejectedly and them Dean groans and rolls his eyes because no way in Hell is he going to teach a freaking angel of the lord how to dress.

That issue is quickly resolved, however, when Cas begins to strip down in the middle of the hotel room.

"Good God," Dean shouts and quickly spins around. He covers his eyes with his hands for good measure. "Cas, there's this new thing: it's called modesty."

"I do not understand humanity's aversion to nudity. Adam and Eve stood naked in the presence of God and they were unashamed."

Dean fumbles his tongue trying to come up with a retort, but is unable. Screw tax account, maybe he should sign Cas up to be a lawyer.

"Is this acceptable, Dean?"

Dean turns around and is genuinely surprised at what he sees. Cas stands wearing the cargoes and black tee-shirt, though he kept the loafers instead of the sneakers—probably because he doesn't know how to tie the damn things, Dean thinks—and he looks more relaxed. Dean knows it's far from the truth. He can see how ragged Cas's eyes are, betraying anything he might say on the subject. But for the moment he doesn't look like Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Warrior of God and Protector of Free Will, but just Cas.

"Dean?"

"It looks good, Cas. It really does."

Cas smiles shyly and Dean clears his throat because this is moving into Chick-Flick territory and he's already had too many of those with Cas already. He has an image to uphold, for crying out loud.

"But, you know what? It's still missing something." He grabs the discarded coat off the bed and hands it to Cas. "Put this back on. It'll look good with the black."

Cas does and Dean realizes then just how much of a second skin the coat is. Cas just isn't Cas without it.

"There," Dean fixes the collar of the coat, turning it upright. "Better."

Cas stares down at his new outfit, tugs at the hemming of the black shirt. "These are clothes that you would wear, Dean."

"Well, duh. I want you to look good when you're kicking ass up in Heaven. Be lucky man, Sam wanted to shop for you at Aeropostale and douche you up. If that doesn't prove he's a soulless bastard, I don't know what does."

The shy smile melts off of Cas's face. "Dean. How are you?"

"Well, I'm just dandy, Cas."

"I promise, Dean, once the war in Heaven is finished, I will help you regain Sam's soul."

"Don't worry about it, Cas," Dean says hastily. "You've done more than enough already. Dude, you went to Hell again and raised him from the dead."

"But I was not able to raise his soul."

"Well, you were only going into the Cage where your crazy older brothers are having it out for eternity, I think I can forgive you for wanting to get your feathery ass outta there as fast as you could."

"I promise."

Dean sighs. "Yeah. I know you do, Cas. But Sam's okay right now. Yeah, he's an ass with no filter, but he's alive. You've got your own shit to worry with right now and I don't want to distract you from that. You gotta focus on staying alive, okay?"

Cas nodded slowly, eyes solemn. "I understand, Dean."

They look away from each other for a brief moment, an eternity.

"These pants are more comfortable than the other ones."

Dean snorts and looks back up at Cas. "Cas, you gotta promise you won't ever change."

-0-0-0-

_Is no one liking this? It's getting a decent amount of views and follows but no one's reviewed yet. It would really make my day if you would take a few minutes to tell me what you like and don't like. I have a few more pre-written chapters left, so there's time for me to still go back and edit if there's any grievous errors._


	4. Interlude: Sam

_Interlude_

Sam Winchester knows what it is like to fear for his life. For his father's life. For Bobby's life. For his brother's life.

But he didn't know what it is like to fear for his brother's sanity, until now.

He can see it cracking before him, breaking and crumbling and he is helpless to do anything to try and salvage it. He has never seen Dean this bad before and it scares him. Every now and then, he glances up in the rearview mirror to catch a glance of his older brother, but Dean is buried heavily underneath Castiel's maimed coat.

He sucks in a cold breath.

Sam knows that the coat needs to be burned, if not for the sake of Castiel's memory, than as a last resort to aide Dean in the grieving process. To let go. The coat is a scab on Dean's grief and he just keeps picking and picking at it. This shit with taking it everywhere, keeping it in the foot well of the Impala, or stuffing it under his pillow or wearing it was slowly poisoning Dean. Sam has thought about stealing the coat away from Dean and burning it himself, but then he imagines Dean's reaction when he discovers it missing and he can't make himself do it. It's all Dean has left of Castiel.

Castiel had been his friend, his ally, his comrade and even family in a "brother of arms" sense, but he never came close to sharing the "profound bond" Dean had with the angel. He can't fathom the level of Dean's grief, but he knows it's deeper than the grief experienced after their father's death.

That scares Sam.

He saw the love of his life burn to death on their apartment ceiling. He's seen demons and vampires and werewolves and wendigoes and ghosts and witches-all of it. But none of them have ever scared him as much as this does right now, this Dean that is not Dean.

Dean's diet since Castiel's death has been alcohol and cigarettes. Sam finds the butts everywhere now, even in the car between the seats, still caked in ash.

His shirt still smells like salt. Sam's fingers tighten around the steering wheel. He's not used to Dean needing him. He's not used to Dean snapping and breaking in ways unimaginable. He knows that what Dean did to that demon wasn't the first time he'd done something like that, but knowing what his brother had done in Hell and seeing it were totally different things.

Sam knows he's not going to sleep tonight. Maybe not ever.

God he needs a drink.

But he can't. He's spent too many nights these last few weeks sitting by Dean's bedside after he finally passed out drunk on the floor, spent too many mornings dealing with a quiet hung over Dean that Sam is totally fine if he never has another drink for the rest of his life.

The hunt was meant to get Dean off his sorry ass and back into the life he was meant to live. Sam never imagined it would turn south so quickly. He doesn't know what the demon meant when he spoke about Castiel, but Dean did and it was enough to make him back into the thing he became in Hell.

He remembers the night Castiel died and Dean cradled his head in his lap. He remembers as realization dawned over Dean and he cried and then he had bent his head down and he has kissed Castiel, soft and chaste.

That image lingers longer in Sam's mind than the one of Castiel's broken wings seared into the ground. He feels stupid, looking back on it now. He should have seen it. It had been right there in front him the entire time and he had turned a blind eye. "Profound bond". That wasn't Castiel just being his usual, strange, socially awkward self. He was being serious.

His memories of being soulless are hazy, drowned in fog. He remembers the detachment, the thirst for the kill. He remembers being mean to Dean and Castiel, apathetic to their causes. Maybe if he'd had his soul he would've seen it.

He realizes he never apologized to Castiel for the things he said. Like, maybe threatening to kill him.

Sam glances back at the rearview mirror. Dean hasn't moved. The only indication he is even alive is the monotonous rising and falling of a tan coat that's stained and torn beyond repair.

_That is not my brother there is a stranger wearing my brother. _

He's never seen his brother possessed, but he imagines this is what it would be like. A stranger looking at Dean would not notice anything wrong. Sam Winchester, sparring a passing glance at his brother, would know at once there was something wrong, but not what. He wants to think that the Dean he knew is still there, drowning underneath the monster that's possessed him. Sam imagines Dean screaming from the recesses of his mind for Sam to save him, just like how Sam had screamed for Dean when Lucifer wore him.

But when he looks at his brother, he can't entertain such thoughts. He looks at his brother and he doesn't see his brother. He sees a drowning man, who refuses any help thrown to him. Dean had given up. That wasn't right. Sam was the one who gave up. He was the one who ran away when life got tough, when the shit hit the fan. Dean didn't give up; he wasn't supposed to give up It wasn't in his blood to just _give up_. Dean brushed himself off, got back on his feet, spat in the face of the enemy, snarled "Boo hoo tough shit" and then he moved on.

At least that's what he used to do.

That Dean had left Bobby's house with the intention that night to make a deal with Crowley terrifies Sam. And, Sam will admit, makes his slightly jealous at the same time. There was a time when it was just him and Dean. Even when their dad was still alive, it was the two of them together. They were known as Sam and Dean Winchester, always together, because they weren't real if they weren't together. Sam and Dean Winchester—John Winchester never even entered the equation. He was separate from them, if people talked about him at all. It was John Winchester and his sons, Sam and Dean. And that's how it had been for Sam's entire life, a whole quarter of a century.

But somewhere along the way, that changed. Sam isn't sure when it happened, but it did so slowly and naturally. Sam and Dean Winchester became Sam and Dean Winchester and their angel of the Lord, Castiel. Castiel, who was awkward and standoffish, but a total BAMF, who could argue philosophy and understood quantum physics, but still didn't get Dean's lame Star Trek jokes, who faced down Heaven's most fierce weapons and demons, but was nearly driven to tears by the advances of a prostitute, who could be so furious to the things he had once called his brothers, yet so kind and gentle to Sam and Dean Winchester, two worthless humans who couldn't do what the rest of humanity had since the dawn of time, avoid starting the Apocalypse.

Castiel had blended in them with so easily, as though he had always belonged with them. And Sam does miss him.

But he is Dean's brother, not Castiel. Only he should be worthy enough to Dean to sell his soul for. Because even when Castiel joined their little, broken family, it was still Sam and Dean Winchester first.

At least it still is in Sam's mind. Who knows what Dean thinks of the situation? Was there a time, maybe when he was still on the demon blood, or more recently when he was soulless, that it was Dean Winchester and Castiel? No Sam to the equation at all? Sam doesn't want to know.

But he does know that his brother is hurting, and breaking, and for the first time in his entire life, Sam isn't enough to make it better.

_End Interlude_


	5. Part Four

Dean's going to kill Sam. He's already made up his mind about how he's going to do it too. He's going to set up roller blades, or a baseball bat, or something small and moving at the top of Bobby's stairs and he'll let the bastard trip over it and break his neck down the stairs. Let the bastard's height being his undoing.

It's that fantasy playing through his mind that keeps him from yelling at the pretty woman sitting in front of him.

When did 'let's go get drinks' become 'hey, we're not actually getting drinks, I just said that to get you out the house, we're actually going to see a fucking therapist because you're insane!'? Not insane, Dean amends. Not necessary. No, Sam's worried about him. Not for him, but about him. Enough to lie to him straight to his face and bring him to see a psychiatrist.

And then the bastard has the audacity to just leave him there!

Dean's going to kill him.

"Hello, Dean," she says, and Dean cringes and tries not to yell. It's not her fault, he tells himself. It's all Sam and his stupid bitch face's fault. She's innocent. "I'm Lizzy. Your brother contacted me. He's awfully worried about you."

"Sam should worry about himself."

Lizzy smiles sadly, and jots down something in the legal pad she has resting on her knees. She looks back up at him. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself?"

"Look, lady, no offense—" Dean crosses his arms over his chest and he feels bad, because, she looks like somewhere he'd hook up with if he met her at a bar, "but I don't want to be here. I don't want to talk. Hell, I'm here against my will. So, why don't we both just cut the crap and get on with the rest of our lives?"

"Sam told me about your friend. I'm so, so sorry for your loss, Dean. My sister's husband died in Iraq, too, last summer."

Iraq?

Oh, that was the story Sam told her. Soldier. War. Right.

_Angels are warriors of God. _ _I am a soldier. _

"There's a support group here," Lizzy says, reaching over to the small table on her right to grab a pamphlet. "We have it every Thursday. It's for people who've lost loved ones overseas. We're always welcoming new members. It's a good way to aid the grieving process."

She hands the pamphlet out towards Dean, but he makes no motion to take it. She frowns and places it back on the table.

"It's okay to be sad about it, Dean. You clearly have people who care about you. I can tell that Sam really cares about you. I understand, support groups can be intimidating, but the research has proven them to be highly effective, for both men and women. You're not alone, Dean. It's okay to grieve."

Dean snorts. "Lady, I am not grieving. And listening to a bunch of other poor saps cry about their lives is not going to make me feel better."

"What will make you feel better, then?"

Dean leans forward, rests his hands on his knees. Lizzy leans in, too, smiling expectantly.

"The only thing that is going to make me feel better is hunting that son of a bitch that killed my friend and making him suffer. I know who did it, you see. It's just all about finding him. And I will. And once I do, I'm going to flay the skin off his bones, hack his halo off, ram it up his ass, and rip his wings straight out of his back and I'm going to burn him—"

Dean watches her as she makes notes on her legal pad. He can see where she's written and circled 'wings?' but he doesn't care. Let the bitch think he's crazy. He knows he's not far from it.

"What you are feeling is—"

"Don't you tell me that what I am 'feeling' is natural. You don't know me. Don't even try to pretend to. You can psychoanalyze me all you want, but all you're gonna come up with is a bunch of crap. You don't know me, you don't know Sam and you don't know Cas—"

"Cas? That's your friend's name?"

Dean swallows and stands up. "We're done here."

"Dean, we still have forty minutes—"

"I said we're done!"

He storms out of the room and into the lobby, not giving a damn about the looks the people sitting in the waiting room give him. He's digging out his cell phone from his pant pockets, prepared to give Sam an profane earful, because he doesn't see the bastard anywhere in sight to do it in person, but right as the phone starts to ring, he sees the Impala sitting patiently in the parking lot and he snaps his phone shut and goes outside.

Sam's sitting on the hood. "Really dude? You didn't even last the full hour?"

Dean wants to punch him, so bad, it takes every fiber of his being to hold back. "Bitch," he mutters and he gets into the passenger seat of the Impala. He watches as Sam runs a hand through his tangled hair—damn kid needs a fucking hair cut already—before he climbs into the driver's seat.

The drive back to Bobby's is blanketed in thick silence.

"Lizzy wrote you a prescription. You stormed out before she could give it to you, but she called me and I picked it up."

Sam places the orange bottle on the bedside table with a small clack. Dean stares at it, the white label with the name, Wilson, Dean, on it and the large printed PROZAC underneath, with small text stamped on _Take ONE pill by mouth twice daily. _The little, white caplets stacked in the bottom look weightless and Dean thinks for a moment if he were to toss them in the air, they'd just float right on up to the sky.

"I'm gonna stand here and watch you take it."

"Piss off, Sammy," he mumbles into his pillow.

"I'm serious, Dean."

"So am I. Piss off."

"I'll shove it down your throat if I have to Dean. Don't make me do that."

"I'd like to see you try, bitch."

Dean's genuinely surprised when Sam presses his knee against his chest and pins him down against the bed with one hand, fumbling with the prescription bottle with the other. He manages to pop the cap off. Dean pushes at Sam with both hands, and when that doesn't make him budge, he starts to beat at his chest, knuckles digging down into the soft parts of Sam's clavicle. Sam grunts in pain, but he still keeps his hold on Dean tight and presses the first of what Dean knows are dozens of white pills against his lips.

Dean clamps his teeth down, hard. It makes his skull ache, but Sam doesn't relent. He releases the grip on Dean's shoulder and quickly maneuvers so that both knees are pinning Dean down onto the bed and then he uses his newly freed hand to pry Dean's jaw open. Dean fights against it, but Sam manages to crack it open just a little bit, just enough, and he slips the pill past Dean's lip and then he's holding Dean's jaw shut.

Dean can't fight against Sam—his baby brother outweighs him and his chest is beginning to hurt—he swallows the pill against his will, cringing as it slowly eases down his throat and then he's coughing because Sam is off him and the sudden intake of air makes him dizzy.

His eyes are watering and his head pounds. He hears wheezing, but he knows it's not from him. Sam is standing by the bed and it's Sam who's crying, tears racing down his face, snot hanging from his nostrils.

"I'll do what I have to Dean," he says, his voice high and scratchy. "I don't want to do it, but I will."

Something instinctive curls in the pit of Dean's stomach. He doesn't want to upset Sam or Bobby, he doesn't mean too, but he has, he knows. Seeing Sam this way makes his bones ache. He reaches out towards Sam slowly, wanting to take his little brother in his arms and be the big brother he's supposed to be. Take care of Sammy, gotta take care of Sammy. It's his job to take care of Sam, not the other way around, never the other way around.

But it's not just Sam anymore, Dean realizes. There've been too many people now that it was his job to take care. He was foolish and selfish. He's a hunter, he doesn't get to have friends or acquaintances or anyone to care about. He'll never get to have the two-story home in the suburbs, with a white picket fence and a beautiful wife and two point five kids and a dog and work a dull, nine to five job for forty years before he can collect his Social Security benefits. Dad made sure Dean knew that, he rammed that fact into Dean's head every day for twenty years.

But after Dad died, Dean decided to hell with it. He wanted it so bad and Dad wasn't there to stop him anymore and he was so selfish. Suddenly his life was more than just him and Sam. Sam was still the focus—the sun of his universe—but suddenly there were other stars and planets that encompassed his world. Bobby had always been there, but he was distant, a place instead of a person, for Dad to dump him and Sam every now and again, but after Dad died, Bobby became the father Dean always longed for.

Ellen Harvelle stepped in as his mother, unafraid to tell him when he was being as ass (which was most of the time) but sincere enough to really give him advice when he needed it.

Jo was the sister he never knew he wanted.

Ash the eccentric cousin.

There was Pamela, the wise aunt.

And Cas.

Dean broke the only rule of hunting his Dad ever made the effort of repeating and he allowed people other than Sam into his life and to matter.

Dean promised each of these people love and protection.

And these people trusted him to provide all of that.

And now every one of them is dead.

Dean looks at Sam, crying and snotty and he's afraid. Sam is still alive. Sam still loves him and trusts him and still looks to Dean to be his big brother for protection.

There is an unabated fear that if Dean reaches out further and touches Sam like he wants to, that Sam will break and disappear and just be gone, like everyone else in his life.

He pulls his hand back and tucks in underneath his pillow.

…

He's not going to tell Sam, but the medicine does make him feel better.

It doesn't make him feel at all.

Zero's a hell of a lot better when you've been scrounging at a negative seven thousand for the last several weeks.

The instructions said only to take two a day, but he's been downing three, four, sometimes five. He keeps the quantity low enough that Sam doesn't get notice when it's time to get his refills, but high enough that he can get reasonably stoned in a reasonable amount of time.

It's not like being drunk, where the world becomes fuzzy and funny and the pain is given a reprieve. The world slows down and the pain is still there, heavy in his head and heart, but the difference is he doesn't care. He's detached from the world and his pain, a stranger in a foreign country. It's there, but it's not nagging at him, pulling him down into himself. It's only a tiny whisper at the corner of his mind, pining for him, but quiet enough that Dean can thoroughly shut it out.

He does research.

Bobby's library is massive and dense, but there's only so much on the subject Dean wants to read. Most of it is useless, trifle information, or even worse, just some religious speculation or ideal. The dog eared King James has seen better days, now complete with Dean's highlights and shorthand scribbles staining the margins, but it doesn't tell Dean much that he doesn't already know.

He stops at the part where Gabriel spoke to Mary, to tell her of God's plan. Dean wonders if this was something they got wrong. It had to be, the wrong name. He met Gabriel too, what seemed like years ago, and he cannot imagine the Gabriel he knew being the Gabriel described here.

It's so easy, to replace it in his mind.

_In the sixth month, God sent the angel Castiel to Nazareth-_

The pain that's always knocking at the corner of his mind is now pounding, cursing, demanding to be let in and felt, and Dean falters. For a brief moment he almost lets it in.

He shuts it out tighter.

In the days preceding the Apocalypse, Bobby did his best to collect everything he could on angels. There were rare; the few Bobby did manage to get his hands on were centuries old. The newest was at least from the early fifteen hundreds and they were written in strange concoctions of old English and Latin and Greek. There were some Hebrew editions, but Dean could barely read those, only managing every third or fourth word, so they were essentially useless.

He's pouring over an old tome, written by what he thinks says Jonathon Malkovic on the front.

_Obedience is all that an angel has. There is no tolerance in Heaven or in the glory of the Lord for a disobedient angel and so it is that any angel that may go against the Lord or his orders be cast down from the Heavenly Host and cut away from his Holy Brethren and become destined to perish in Isolation, alongside Lucifer. _

Dean shuts the book and pushes it to the side, grabbing the next one in his humble pile. He can't read the authors name on this one, but he doesn't care and he opens it to a random page near the beginning.

_Angels are naturally impervious to all kinds of injury and death through their connection with the Heavenly Father. It should be noted, however, that angels are not invincible. It is ironic, but an angel may be killed by the blade of his own kind, or through the righteous punishment dealt by the Archangels towards the Disobedient. _

Dean snaps that one closed to and leans back in his chair.

The pain comes back knocking harder. Dean dry swallows another pill before laying down in bed.

888888

The motel parking lot is empty, Dean being the only occupant. He loads his weapons into the trunk of the Impala and secures the fake bottom. Above him, a street lamp flickers, casting strange shadows upon him and the pavement.

It goes out with a sick crack. Dean feels the presence behind him, power radiating so strongly that the hairs on his neck stand on end.

He turns around slowly, hand reaching for the Colt holstered in his belt loop.

Raphael is taller than Dean remembers. His head is held back, chin up, arms tightly to his side.

"Dean Winchester," his voice is like thunder, reverberating in the air. It hits Dean in the face and for a brief moment he feels like he's choking. "You are a hard man to find."

"What are you doing here?"

He wants to call to Cas, but he stops at the moment before doing so. This thing wants to kill Cas and Dean will not be the one to put him into danger.

"I am here to talk."

"I'm not talking to you."  
>Dean scans the area. It's wide open in all directions. He could run anywhere at any time.<p>

But he knows it's useless. How is he supposed to out run an archangel? Better yet, how did Raphael even find him? The sigils Castiel carved in to his ribs, are they not powerful enough to shield him from Heaven's strongest weapons?  
>"I have something that may be of value to you, Dean Winchester."<p>

"A BLT on rye?"

Raphael's eyes darken. A clap of thunder screams in the air. "Your brother's soul."

Dean's breath catches in his throat. "You're lying."

"It is yours, if you convince Castiel to surrender."

This time fear is washed away with anger. "You son of a bitch," Dean spits; then, he laughs. "Cas is kicking your ass up there, ain't he?"

Raphael's head tilts in a Cas manner and for reasons Dean doesn't understand, it pisses him off. "Cas?" Then a knowing grin spreads across his face—shit eating and Dean realizes he's in the presence of something that could kill him with a flick of its wrist. "That's adorable. Does he do tricks too? Dance for treats? Please tell me you were at least responsible enough to neuter the poor thing—"

"Shut up!"

Raphael steps closer to Dean. "Castiel is losing. Very badly. Contrary to what he may have told you, I do not want to watch my brothers die. Castiel's loyalists are as stubborn as he is, and so long as he fights, so will they. And such as it is, they will die. Castiel's surrender will also be the surrender of his loyalists. I will not sit by idly while my brother's die on behalf of Castiel's pride."

Dean's lips curl in over his teeth and he shakes his head. "No. You want to re-start the Apocalypse, I ain't helping you with that. Besides, you think that Cas is just going to surrender because I ask him to?"

"He'd do anything you ask him to. He has. It is why we are in the predicament we are."

Dean doesn't need the reminder. It feels like he's been struck in the face; not so much by what Raphael says, but the honesty behind them. Raphael is not lying and Dean doesn't want to think about the unwavering trust and adoration Cas has for him. Cas betrayed his family and Fell from Heaven because Dean asked him to. Would he also give up the war he's been fighting, if Dean asked him to?

"So what?" Dean hates himself for the way his voices quivers. "What's your big plan? Sure, get Cas to surrender, re-boot the Apocalypse—what about all the stuff in between?"

"It is impervious that all of Heaven be united for the end of all things. Castiel's loyalists will undergo reeducation to ensure that their fidelity does not waver again."

"Reeducation?" Dean doesn't like the causal way Raphael says it. "You mean torture." It's not a question. He still remembers with cold clarity those awful days before Lilith's death, when Cas disappeared and left behind bitter Jimmy Novak, who only knew that angels had taken Cas back up to Heaven.

He remembers Cas returning days later, all powerful and pissed off, refusing to say where he'd been or what had happened, only that—

_I serve Heaven. Not humanity. And I certainly do not serve you._

Dean knew an automated response when he heard it. He knows what it's like to have a response beaten into you so forcefully that it comes out as instinctive as the truth.

"Call it what you will," Raphael says.

"You gonna "reeducate" Cas too?"

"No." Another clap of thunder overtakes the sky. A bolt of lightning so bright flashes overhead. Dean sees the shadows of Raphael's wings spread out on the pavement behind him. They're massive—larger than Cas's, he can just tell. "Reeducation has proved ineffective with Castiel. I will see to it that much more permanent measures are taken."

"You're gonna kill him."

"I will personally see to it that they are no resurrections this time. Now, Dean, about our transaction—"

"Stuff it. You're asking me to choose between Sam's soul and Cas's life."

"Oh, good, you were paying attention."

Dean bites into his lip so hard he begins to taste blood. Sam may be a new kind of asshole without his soul, but at least he's alive. And as the days go on, Dean can see more and more of his baby brother underneath the skin of the thing that calls himself Sam Winchester.

Cas is family too. Dean is not going to sign Cas's death warrant to get Sam his soul back—especially not from the biggest prick this side of the galaxy.

"No deal," Dean snaps.

Another crack of thunder. "How unfortunate, then." A pregnant pause. "He's incapable of loving you. It is not in his biology. It is not in any of our biology. Castiel found himself disillusioned with the Father and simply turned to you as a replacement. In his eyes, you are something to be worshipped and feared. Not loved." He looks away briefly, towards the sky. "Castiel will die, Dean Winchester. He is outnumbered in soldiers and outmatched in skill. He may have pulled you from Hell, but he is still ultimately nothing more than a disobedient little foot soldier, with a learned arrogance."

"Why don't you say that to my face?"

Dean whips around. Cas is standing behind him, accompanied by another angel—Balthazar.

"Castiel," the name drips off Raphael's lips like a bitter poison. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show."

Cas steps in front of Dean. Dean hears Balthazar scuffle closer behind him. He's boxed in by the two angels, with no means of escape.

Not that he would try, even if he did think he could make a break through it. Dean's used to fear, but not to this extent. His feet feel cemented to the asphalt.

"You have no business being here."

"What a coincidence, neither do you."

Cas's shoulders tighten. His jaw tightens, clenched so tightly, Dean wonders if the molars are cracking. "You would do best to leave now."

"Would I?"

"Yes."

There's another horrendous clap of thunder, a massive show of lighting. It's coming from Cas this time. Dean doesn't know how he knows it. But he does, and he's so sure.

The shadows of Cas's wings are spread out on the pavement. Dean does his best to avoid flinching at the sight. For as massive and inspiring as they are, they're shriveled and tiny compared to Raphael's. Dean can see where feathers are unfurled—growing back—and they're worn and frayed. Not immaculate like Raphael's. The right wing is hanging slightly lower than the left; it doesn't curl up over his head like the left one, but stays level with his shoulder.

_What pile of shit have you climbed into, Cas?_ He thinks.

"You will not win, brother," Raphael says. "I do not know why you continue this foolishness. It is arrogant and misguided and will only lead you to failure and damnation." He takes a single step closer to Cas, but his stride is so long that only a few breaths stand between them. "I will take great pleasure in casting you down into the Pit."

Cas's head tilts. "I am not afraid of Hell, brother. I have laid siege to the deepest bowels of despair and returned, with a passenger no less. _Twice._ Can you really trust that I will be kept there, should you attempt to send me back?"

"Worry not, brother. There will be plenty of room in the Cage once our eldest are freed."

If Cas is intimidated, he does a damn good job of not showing it. Dean feels like he should be pissing his pants, but he can't tear his eyes away from the sight. A foreign sense of pride swells up in his chest.

_My angel is fucking awesome._

He pauses in his thoughts for a moment.

_My angel?_

He leers back at Cas, who still stands tall and unafraid, glowering at his big brother, sparring with words without hesitation. Cas doesn't understand sarcasm half the time, pop culture at all, but damn if he isn't a snarky little bastard when he needs to be. Cas, who pulled him from Hell, and who told him he deserved to be saved when Dean thought otherwise; who got along with Sammy and who stood by his convictions even in the face of death.

_Yeah,_ Dean thinks with a swallow. _My angel. _

"I suppose there will be," Cas says.

A tense silence falls over them. Dean thought Cas's staring was bad, but Raphael could easily take him down.

"Be wary, Castiel. The next time we meet will not be on such benign terms." He tears his eyes away from Cas and looks straight at Dean. "Consider this a gift, Dean Winchester. You cannot say I am unreasonable."

There's another flash of lighting and then Raphael is gone. Dean breathes three times and then Cas is turned towards him, resolve cracked and drowned in worry.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Dean says. Balthazar backs off and walks to be by Cas's side. "I'm good."

"He's certainly gotten ballsier, I've give him that," Balthazar says. "You might want to start your keeping your pets on a leash, Cassie, lest animal control come back."

Dean bites back the retort that rests on his tongue. He turns to Cas, who is no longer standing tall and ramrod straight, but slouching. His right arm hangs limp from his shoulder.

"Are you okay, Cas? I saw your wing-shadow things, they look—"

"I am fine, Dean."

"Son of a bitch!" Balthazar cries as he examines Cas's back. "You really are an idiot, aren't you? It's completely dislocated. How did you even manage this?"

Cas hisses as Balthazar touches the tender area behind his shoulder. "It must be a talent."

"I'll say. And you were flying with this? Idiot!" He swats Cas on the back of the head. "Well, come on, now; it'll take hours to put itself back in its socket, let's get this over with, shall we? I can't do it here; you're going to have to manifest them."

Cas nods stiffly. "Be careful, Dean. Should Raphael ever approach you again, call me at once."

Dean snorts. "No need to tell me twice." He sobers. "You too, Cas." Be careful.

Balthazar and Cas are gone, the sound of fluttering wings breaching the absence of thunder.

When Dean gets back into his motel room several minutes later, Sam is lying face down on the far bed, sleeping.

8888888

A year passes by before Dean even realizes.

And despite the ache in his chest, life moved on.

It took weeks after the botched demon hunt, but he and Sam start taking up cases again. Vampires, ghosts, wendigoes and werewolves, in every state and even Canada a few times. He and Sam sleep in scuzzy motel rooms and live off bad diner food and Dean is pissed when he realizes that even though everything changed, nothing changed.

Sam doesn't ever talk about him. Bobby won't use him name and avoids the subject as best as possible. He'll just say "he" or "Feathers" but only if he absolutely has to.

When the anniversary rolls around, Dean finds himself in a bar, several empty shots of whiskey lined in front of him. He calls the bartender for another round, but the man simply glares at him and says something about cutting off that rolls a fog in Dean's mind, before Dean yells at him to fuck off.

There's a woman, tall and busty and blonde and he ends up going home with her half an hour after they first make eye contact.

But when he steps into the apartment and she begins her strip tease, he finds himself passionless. He's hammered on whiskey and high on antidepressants—he hasn't had a hookup in over a year, and god knows he wants it—he wants it so badly, it burns.

But it doesn't feel right and his body doesn't respond the way it should and Dean finds himself standing underneath a blinking street lamp at two in the morning, staring up at the stars.

_Raphael,_ he prays, but he stops there. The words don't come as easily as they used to.

He calls Sam when it starts to rain and doesn't say a word when he eventually pulls up. Dean just climbs into the car and leans down into the seat.

…

He still researches as much as he can. After ripping through Bobby's entire library, he finds himself with more questions than answers and he wishes he had talked to Cas more about the whole angel thing. It wasn't just a type of creature, he realizes too late, it was a state of being, with an entire culture and language behind it. He remembers all the times he teased Cas about his ignorance of human culture—not knowing about William Shatner or what an "enterprise" was, or how to set up the voicemail on his cell and then he considers that Cas was older than piss and had spent most of his life bumming around in Heaven, probably at the Angel Academy. That night in Bobby's barn was probably the first time he'd ever even been on Earth.

Dean wonders all the questions he never asked. What were baby angels like? More specifically, what was Cas like as a baby angel? Was he even ever a baby, or did God just put some magic into a bit of dirt and bam! there was Castiel, angel of the Lord, full grown and a stick up his ass the size of the Empire State building?

He wonders about the Enochian language. He's tried studying it, but can't make head or tails. It's not Latin, or Greek or even Hebrew.

He's studying Latin one evening and finds a list of root words, prefixes and suffixes.

_cas _meaning accident and _tiel _meaning in every way and Dean wonders if it's a literal translation. Cas existed before the Latin language even existed, but…

Dean doesn't want to think about it.

He can't find anything on archangels, though, no matter how hard he looks.

Sam clears his throat as they drive into the motel parking lot. "I think I found a case for us. There have been a few disappearances in Tallahassee and some weird deaths—I'm thinking vampire. Head out first thing tomorrow—"

"Sounds good."

"You sure? It's all right if you don't want….I can call Rufus or Garth—"

"I said it sounded good. Haven't ganked a vamp in a blue moon. Better be some fun."

To confirm it is a vampire, Dean and Sam need to examine the bodies that have come through. Dean's ruffling through the glove compartment, trying to decide the right fake ID to use. FBI, or Homeland?

He finds the one of Cas, from the days when Sam was AWOL and doped up on demon blood. Dean had needed help on the case, but really, he was just glad to have had Cas's company, even if he wouldn't say it.

In the photo Cas is squinting, head titled and hair standing in all directions. Dean can still hear his gruff, commanding, _Dean what is that_ and the startled confusion that followed after Dean snapped the photo and the flash came on.

Cas had then asked to see and he ended up taking what must have been a thousand awful, blurry pictures trying to figure out how the damn camera worked _These people, Dean, are they trapped in here? _

A smile tugs at the corners of Dean's lips. It's a good memory and he even chuckles as he re-lives it. Castiel, angel of the Lord, Heaven's resident badass, Dean's literal savior, enamored with a simple digital camera.

Dean tucks the photo into his pants pocket and pulls out the IDs for him and Sam.

It's been a long time since they got to be CIA agents.

Once the find the vampire, taking it down is easier than expected. Dean manages the be-heading with the tire iron kept in the backseat of the Impala. It's not as clean as he would like—he manages to get both him and Sam drenched in about a gallon of blood. The coppery tang rests too easily on Dean's lips.

But the adrenaline is searing through his veins now. It's different than the other hunts they've done this past year. Those were few, and certainly not as bloody as this one.

It's the blood that makes the hunt thrilling.


	6. Part Five

_Sorry for the late update; School and work have been sucking most of my time and I'm running low on pre-written chapters. Sorry this is a pretty short one, too, but I really liked where it ended. _

_NOTE: Today's chapter starts with a flashback. _

888888

Dean's sitting on the motel bed, running a damp towel over the blackened angel blade. Sam's in the bathroom, washing his face—stupid bastard can't even gank a ghost without getting doused in ectoplasm.

Dean gets the substance off the blade as best he can without needing soap or bleach. He holds it up to the ceiling, twisting it and watching the light gleam off the silver.

Sam comes into the room, rubbing his face with a towel. Dean smiles at him, despite himself. He's still pissed about Raphael being the one to give Sam his soul back—Dean's constantly worried about what the price is going to be; angels, ironically, weren't known to be very generous. But Dean's just glad to have his brother actually back. The brother he grew up with, the brother who got on his nerves and who called him a jerk and who didn't make the vic's families cry on the spot.

"Dude," Sam says, "you're fawning over that thing like a baby."

"Excuse me, Samantha—I'm just trying to take care of the most badass thing we've got. Besides me, of course. Hell of a lot more useful than you. I don't need to worry about Bladey rushing at a ghost head on and getting thrown into a wall. You know what, I might just dump you and make Bladey your replacement. He gets shotgun. You can ride in the back."

"Jerk," Sam spits.

"Bitch."

Sam shakes his head and scoffs before he falls down onto the bed. Dean chortles.

Everything seems to be going back to normal.

He hears Cas fly in behind him.

"Hey, buddy," Dean says without turning around, "I gotta tell you, I friggin love this thing. Best gift I ever got."

"You do?" Cas is genuinely surprised.

"Hell yeah. It's like having a little angel buddy with me twenty-four seven."

Cas walks forward so that he is standing in between the two beds. He's facing Sam.

Sam shuffles awkwardly on his feet. "Hey, Cas," he says.

"It is good to see you well again, Sam."

Deans shakes his head at the bright smile that comes across Sam's face. Friggin girl.

"So, Cas-who is Heaven's blacksmith? Because I want to meet him."

"Oh well, I made that blade you're holding now."

Dean only narrowly avoids dropping the blade onto the ground. He nicks himself with the edge and mutters a curse while he wipes the blood droplets onto his pant legs. "You made this? How?"

"It's not that complicated, if you know what you are doing," Cas turns to face him and reaches his hand out. Dean places the blade in Cas's grip.

"The blade has to be silver. No other metal will do. You also need angel blood. I used mine for this blade, it was easiest at the time. You burn the blood to a boil with holy fire and pour it over the blade, then you wash it off with holy water. You also need to incorporate the element of air into it. I flew through the stratosphere, catching clouds. There is a final step, but it's optional. I've included in this blade, but you can also have it blessed by another angel. It's for…good luck and protection."

"Wow," Dean says.

"Does every angel make their own blade?" Sam asks.

A look Dean can't place falls over Cas's face. "Well, no, not actually. It is customary for angels to be presented with their blade after they graduate from training."

"So why did you make yours then?" Dean asks.

"I, uh…it is actually a very boring story, you wouldn't be interested-"

"Cas."

Cas's eyes lock onto Dean. He sighs. "They wouldn't give it to me. They told me I had failed and that I wouldn't be graduating and that I didn't deserve a blade of my own."

Dean wasn't sure if he heard that right or not, but Sam's stern, "That's bullshit, Cas," does a good job of confirming what he thought he heard. "You not graduate? You're the most badass guy I know. How could they have failed you?"

"Something about 'suffers from a surplus of compassion'."

"Well," Dean clears his throat. "You showed them, didn't you? Heaven's Admins won't give you what you've earned, you go out and make your own! That's really badass."

"I am glad you both think so. They were not as pleased with the situation."

"Did you make the second one too? The one you carry around?"

Cas shucks the second blade out of his coat sleeve. "No, this one they did give to me."

"When?" Dean asks.

"After I pulled you from Hell."

"Oh," Dean says. His throat feels tight; the scar on his shoulder suddenly burns. "That was nice of them."

"That's what they said."

"Wait," Sam says. "Why did you give us that one then? It clearly means more to you."

"That is why I gave it to you. I am proud of that blade, Sam. I made it all by myself-I have put literally my own blood into it. There are no other beings in the universe that I would trust to take care of it the way you two do."

Dean shares a look with Sam. He coughs to hide the itch in his throat. "Dude. That's really fucking girly."

8888888

The memory comes back to Dean through a dream. He shoots out of bed the moment collective consciousness returns and barely takes the time to throw on clothes before he runs out of the motel room to the Impala.

He digs through the hidden arsenal, tossing aside the various firearms and knives, bottles of holy water and oil and salt and iron.

He finds it just after ten minutes, buried at the very bottom, tucked into the far corner.

There was more than just a bloodied coat and ruined jeans left.

"How could I have forgotten?" He says quietly. The blade is exactly as he remembers. It shines in the moonlight and Dean swears it glows a gentle blue.

"Dean?" It's Sam's voice; sleepy and worried, right behind him. "It's two in the morning. What are you doing?"

Dean runs the length of the blade alongside his palm. It's so light; so weightless, like he's holding a piece of the sky.

Sam's hand comes down firmly on his shoulder. "Dean? Please tell me you're not drunk."

"No, Sammy, I think I'm the soberest I've ever been." He turns to face his brother. "We gotta get to Bobby's. Now."

Sam blinks. "N-now? Dean, what are you on? We're on a hunt, remember?"

"Call Garth or Rufus, they can handle it. This is so much more important, Sammy."

"Dean, please, what's going on?"

"I'm gonna kill an archangel."

….

"Dean, please-. Please, think about you're doing."

"I am."

"I mean really think. Actually put thought—you can't kill an archangel, Dean! That's kind of where the "arch" part comes in."

"If it bleeds, we can kill it," Dean says in his best Schwarzenegger voice. He pushes the gas on the car, speeding past an elderly woman who can barely see over the steering wheel.

"And how—Dean, slow down! Jesus! How do you plan on killing one?"

"I'm still working on that."

"Dean!"

"Relax, Samantha, take your Midol already. I have a plan."

"Mind sharing that plan with me?"

"Nope."

Sam sighs. "Dean."

Dean glances at his brother out of the corner of his eye.

"Please do not do anything stupid. No deals, okay?"

"What makes you think I'm gonna make a deal?"

"I don't know what you're thinking and that's scary as fuck, dude. So please, just tell me what's running through your mind so we can discuss it and come up with a plan together."

"I'm gonna kill an archangel. That's my plan. I'll work out the kinks along the way."

In Dean's pocket, there is a fake FBI badge and stuck in his belt loop is an angel blade. It doesn't matter how or why he's going to do it, but he's going to do it. He should've done it a year ago. He let himself get caught up in the shit storm of alcohol and antidepressants and self pity.

He doesn't need the self pity anymore, at least.

They were two hours away from Bobby's. It would be ten in the morning by the time they got there. Dean estimated it would take the rest of the day to set up the summoning ritual, but it could get done today if he worked hard.

He presses the gas faster, ignoring Sam's cries of protest.

…..

He rummages through all of Bobby's supplies, tossing out everything unessential, ignoring Bobby's protests. He has the bowl set up on Bobby's desk—he had thrown all the books and papers onto a messy pile on the floor. He sets the ingredients down beside it.

"Boy, what are you doing?" Bobby says.

"Can't talk," Dean says. He pats at his pants pockets. "Lighter, lighter—where's my fucking lighter?"

"Sam told me what you're thinking."

"Good for him." Dean walks into the kitchen and looks through the junk drawers. Sam must have nicked his lighter sometime last night; he's been getting onto Dean about his smoking lately. Dean shrugged. He would bitch at Sam about it later, right now he wasn't that worried about it. He finds a matchbook and cries in triumph before going back into the living room.

He stands behind the desk, matchbook in hand.

"Dean—" Bobby's voice is strained. "Dean, look at me."

Dean does.

"Dean, I know you're hurting. I can't imagine what this last year has done to your brain, boy, and I know you're angry and you have every right to be but this—this shit has to stop. You can't keep walking into stuff blind. You can't let this anger overcome you. You saw what it did to your daddy. It killed him slowly. It ate at him until there was nothing left but an empty shell.

"I know how you feel. I still miss Karen, but even back then I knew well enough that I had to let her go. I had to let the anger go. Your daddy was a bad role model. He taught you wrong. Anger, vengeance. They're not weapons, boy, they're poison. And not just to you. Don't you have any idea what your little escapades are doing to Sam? To me? I want to see Raphael dead just as much as you do boy, but you can't run into things blind."

"I'm not running into it blind. I've been researching."

"And how much of that information has been helpful? And this isn't just any old angel we're talking about. This is Raphael, the archangel. He's spoken to God. He's bound demons and cast them into Hell. What do your books got to say on that?"

Dean's hands hesitate for a moment.

"He killed Cas."

"I know, son. But even if there was a way to kill an archangel…it's not going to bring him back."

"I know," Dean says, aggravated. Why do people insist on telling him stuff he already knows? Why do they insist on treating him like he's fragile, that if they use any excessive force at all, he'll break and crack? Dean knows they try, but they can't help him. Hell broke him so perfectly that an angel had to rebuild him from scratch. Sam and Bobby…they try. They try so hard and he sees the pain they're in. He doesn't want to put them through pain, but they just don't understand. He can't just let this go. He can't just move on. Bobby said it himself; It's not in his blood. He pulls the match against the box and holds it up, watching the flame dance, the smoke curls up to the sky.

"Dean!"

"Raphael," Dean says, drawing out the vowels, the way Cas used to pronounce it with the Enochian accent, before dropping into the bowl.

The bowl erupts with blinding smoke. It's inches thick, clouding around Dean's eyes and ears. Dean can't see. Bobby is somewhere next to him, cursing and coughing. The room becomes humid, sweat droplets form on Dean's eyebrows and race down his face. His hands are moist, but his mouth is dry, even though he hasn't had a smoke since the day before.

The atmosphere remains unchanged, though. No lightening, no thunder, no awesome power surging through.

The smoke clears and Dean looks ahead. There is nothing there but a dirty wall. His eyes scan the room; only Bobby is with him. He has his hat off and is batting away at the remaining smoke.

His throat feels tight.

"How…" Dean digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand. His hands move up to his head and he digs his fingernails into the flesh of his scalp, as deep as they'll go and then he forces them in even deeper and deeper. He screams, spins around and punches the wall behind him, so hard his fist goes clear through and decades of dust and drywall cake his skin. He kicks the desk and tosses aside the bowl, flinging it straight into the kitchen where it hits the far wall and bounces off the floor. The nearest lamp ends up shattered on the ground and the air is permeated with Dean's swearing and Bobby' screaming. Bobby's trying to hold him back, has his arms wrapped around Dean's torso, but Dean tears away easily and it takes everything, everything, beyond everything in him not to turn around and hit Bobby too.

Bobby didn't believe it would work, Bobby didn't want it to work, and it didn't work and it was all Bobby's fault and it was all Sam's fault and it was Dean's fault and John Winchester's fault and Raphael's fault and it was _God's fault._

Where the hell was God in any of this? Where was he when Azazel forced his mother into deal? Where was he, ten years later, when a demon broke into his house and forced his baby brother to eat his blood? Where the hell was God when John Winchester drank himself into oblivion, when he fucked off for days at a time, when he beat his own children the few times he was there?

Where was God when his children jumpstarted the Apocalypse? Where was God when Michael and Lucifer had their big standoff? Where was God that year that Dean was so lonely, and his brother was dead, and his only friend was gone and fighting a war all by himself?

Where was God when Cas needed him? Where was God when Cas still prayed to him, for guidance, for fucking forgiveness? Where was God when Cas was missing and lonely and hurting and believing he deserved it all?

And where was the hell was God when Dean needed him?

Dean falls to the floor, unable to hold back the strangled sobs that tear at his throat, begging for release. He curls on his side and pulls his legs up to his chest. His fingers tangle in his matted, unkempt hair.

His heart is filed with such hate; it burns, but is icy cold at the same time. It's nestled deep in the pit of his stomach, but it makes him feel lighter than air, barely existing. He hates Bobby and Sam for not understanding, and he hates Cas for dying, and he hates Raphael for killing him, and he hates John Winchester for drinking and for beating him and for fucking up his life and he hates God for everything.

He's in Hell again, he's sure of it. Soon enough now, he'll only blink and then the walls of Bobby's living room will melt away to chains and fire and scalpels, Alastair's voice, singing to him.

"Oh, Dean," Bobby says. He touches Dean gently on the side, but Dean jerks away and this time he does hit Bobby, square in the face. Shocked at what he's done, he falls limp onto the floor.

Everyone he loves gets hurt because of him.

He cries until he's sure his body is depleted of water and then he just lays there on the floor, unmoving. Sam comes in at one point and he just sits down by Dean. He doesn't say anything; he only sits there, eyes locked firmly on him. Sad. Despondent. But there is no judgment. No anger. No fear. Only a sad acceptance.

That's worse than Sam yelling and hitting him.

This has to be Hell.


	7. Part Six

"I do not understand your insistence for brutality," Cas says, knees bent as far as they could. He touches a single finger to the demon corpse and jerks away like he's been burned, something akin to disgust on his face.

"Dude," Sam says, rubbing the bloodied demon blade on his jeans, "they were demons. I don't think they deserve the gentle treatment."

Cas stands to his full height. "That is not what I meant."

"Oh yeah?" Dean snorts. "Then what did you mean?"

Cas pulls his lower lip underneath his upper—and if Dean didn't know any better, he would say that the angel was pouting.

"Sparring. It is an art form. It is not about the kill, but the dance for survival. Your methods are actually rather tasteless."

"Hey!" Dean cries. "Well, then, Cas, enlighten me. How do I spar with taste?"

Cas shucks out his spare angel blade. "First, fight how you would normally."

Dean swallows. He doesn't want to fight Cas. Cas could kick Dean's ass from within a coma. He remembers that alley, from those horrible days during the Apocalypse. Cas had already been Fallen then, just on the cusp of mortality; he was a scrawny little shit already, but he hadn't had any problems with picking Dean up by the collar and beating him into next week.

But this time is different. He and Cas have come a long way since then. Dean looks into Cas's eyes and he doesn't see the unprecedented terror fury he had back in that alley. He sees a friend; not quite an angel, but not quite a man. He sees weariness and stress, hopelessness, but most of all Cas just looks tired.

This war is killing him. His visits are becoming fewer and farer in between, and it takes all of Dean not to fall to his knees and pray to Cas for just a sign of life.

And he can see that Cas needs this…whatever it is. Dean can only indulge. He takes out his own angel blade—the blade Cas gave him; the blade Cas had made all by himself.

"When you're ready," Cas says. Sam steps back without a word.

Dean grips the blade tight and huffs. Then, he lunges at Cas with all his speed. Cas merely steps out of the way, then grabs Dean's arm as he runs by. He twists it—not hard, but firm enough—so that it is pinned behind Dean's back and Dean feels the point of Cas's blade against the nape of his neck.

"You're dead, Dean," Cas says.

"Yeah," Dean pants, licks his lips. "I guess I am. Round two?"

They turn to face each other again. They're closer than they were last time. Instead of rushing Cas like last time, Dean and him travel in circles, once, twice, eyes never leaving the other. Dean lunges at Cas when he sees what he think is the perfect opening—Cas's right arm shifts slightly. He holds the blade straight and goes right for Cas's chest.

Cas disarms him with his own blade, sending Dean's flying across the room. The tip of Cas's blade is held unwavering underneath Dean's chin.

"You're dead."

"Yeah," is all Dean is able to say this time.

They try again.

And again.

Dean never makes it very far. Cas is always five, six, twenty moves ahead of him, like he knows what Dean's going to do before Dean even thinks about doing it. Cas disarms him, sometimes he even steals the blade and holds both in his possession; It always ends the same. Dean, weaponless, and Cas with the blade held over one of Dean's vital organs and his dead end stare, gravelly voice of "You're dead."

"Fuck Cas," Dean says, after they've been doing it for what feels like forever, but what Sam informs him-behind hideous laughter- was actually only eight minutes. "Am I really that bad?"

"I observed seven grievous errors with everything you've just shown me."

"Only seven?" Sam jokes from the sidelines.

Cas releases Dean. Dean turns to face him. "Well, what I was doing wrong?"

Cas's held tilts. He shifts the blade in his hands so that the handle is sticking out and the blade rests in his palm. He hits Dean lightly on the thigh. "You're feet are too close together," he says. "and your toes are turned inwards. You've already limited your range of motion and given your opponent amble opportunity to take you off balance. You always lunge when you make your first attack—this also puts you off balance, your upper body hangs in front of your lower body. You hold the blade wrong," Cas takes Dean's hand at this, despite Dean's protests and cries of "personal space, Cas!" and Sam's not even trying to hide his laughter this point. He uncurls Dean's fingers and changes how they're positioned-now, Dean's holding it like he would a pen.

"This gives you more flexibility with your weapon," he says, and because Dean's now determined that Cas is just being a showoff, he twirls the blade single-handedly, slipping it in and out of his fingers with ease. Dean watches as it swims between his fingers, effortlessly.

"You go straight for the kill shot, instead of disarming you opponent, which narrows your objective and leads you wide open for any number of counter shots. You slouch when you stand and most importantly of all, you do not look your opponent in the eye when you take your shot."

"Damn, Cas," Dean says, taking it all in. It's almost rehearsed, Dean thinks. Cas is only repeating something he's heard before, something that has been drilled deep into him. "Way to make me feel inadequate."

"You are perfectly adequate, Dean."

Dean coughs into his hands. "Who taught you to fight?"

Cas looks down at his angel blade; sorrow encompasses all his features. "Raphael."

Dean feels like he's been hit straight across the face. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago. It hardly matters now."

Cas looks up to the ceiling. "I have go," he says and before Dean can anything, he's gone.

8888888

It takes seven days, a bottle of Whiskey, half his bottle of Prozac and entire cartoon of cigarettes later, but Dean forces himself out of the slump by diving into more research. He refuses to give up. He made a promise and he has every intention of keeping it.

Even if it takes the rest of his life.

He can't give up the booze yet. Or the Prozac. They help him function. The world around him blurs and shifts, melts into the background when he's stoned and bodily needs like sleep and food are forgotten. It means he can research more.

Most of what's on the Internet is pure bullshit. Not even legends or theories, but downright asinine, moronic crap, probably written by some religious hippie knocked out on LSD. At least Dean's addictions were legal.

He's running out of books and is left to his own theories on why the summoning spell didn't work. Dean had never thought as archangels as being different to angels except for in regards to power. All supernatural creatures had some sort of hierarchy, some sort of alpha king that was just biologically stronger, but not biologically different. They still had the same weakness as their lesser counterparts, it just usually took more of it.

Archangels, Dean thinks, are different. They are not just super-powered angels. They were specifically chosen by God to be better.

He finds himself outside Bobby's house, staring up at the sky. Praying again, but not to Raphael.

He's genuinely surprised when Samandriel appears in front of him.

"Dean Winchester," he says, chin held high. Dean smirks; it's kind of cute, really. He's still wearing the damn wiener hut uniform, with the crooked "Alfie" name tag. "I never imagined I would receive a call from you."

His eyes are locked onto him with the same intense focus and adoration that Cas used to have. It's nearly too much for Dean. "Alfie," Dean says, "how's Heaven?"

"Intense," Samandriel says slowly. "Raphael has been in a good mood. It's rather frightening."

Dean sucks on his lip. "How was reeducation?"

"Educational."

"Really?" Dean doesn't bother to hold back the sarcasm, even though he's fairly sure Samandriel won't get it.

"But not near enough."

"Really?" It's surprise, this time.

"Castiel suffered through reeducation a thousand and one times during his life. And a thousand and one times, he bounced back and did what he wanted anyway. It would be cowardly of not only myself, but of everyone, if we were to give up after only a single session."

Dean likes what he hears. He smiles. "The war's back on?"

"Not quite; but there are still many loyal to Castiel who wish to see his dream of free will for all angels come true. I've been doing my best to gather up the loyalists. We will avenge his death, Dean Winchester."

"I get Raphael."

Samandriel's eyes darkened, wisps of sadness curtaining the pupil. "Dean," he said, "an archangel can only be killed by another archangel."

"I'm working on another way, kid, don't worry about it. But I do need your help."

"Of course."

"Wait, really?" Dean steps back, surprised. Actually, sincerely, surprised. His heart balls up in his chest and he thinks for a moment he might cry. "You'll help me? Just like that?" After being struck with denial after denial from Bobby and Sam….

"Castiel told me you were a good man. He said were I ever to need your assistance, you would give it to me because I fought for him. I still trust in Castiel," a small smile dances on Samandriel's lips, "and therefore I trust you."

There it was again, The Look. Pure adoration, trust, love and he'd done nothing to deserve it. He was a miserable wretch, a drunk, a stoner, a man whore and overall just an ass. How was it that angels came to him? How was it that he got an angel to fall in love with him?

"I miss him," Samandriel says; it's a whisper, but it rings loudly in Dean's head. "Castiel wasn't much older than me—not in angelic terms, anyway—but he was so much more experienced in battle. He was a master! A legend, even before he went to Hell. You cannot imagine what an honor it was to be assigned to his garrison. I knew I wasn't worthy. I knew I would never be as good as Castiel. But—but Castiel took me aside and he told me he believed in me. He said he was proud to have me stand by his side. Can you believe that? He was proud of me? Look at me!"

Samandriel, angel of the lord, dressed in Alfie the teenager, still wore the weenie hut uniform that was too big, with a crooked hat and a goofy, crooked grin. He was cute in the same sense that puppies playing with babies were cute. A passing glance would not result in the thought that this was a creature of celestial intent, who had seen the wars and plagues of all human history, who fought demons and prayed to God and who was just an entire something that Dean would never be able to comprehend.

Cas never came off that way, either, but more of a socially crippled, horrifically introverted man than the "just a kid" vibe Samandriel rubbed off.

"What in all of creation did Castiel see in me?"

Dean remembers the sex, the alcohol, the violence and swearing and taking God's name in vain. He remembers selling his soul and going to Hell and he remembers Hell and Alastair and what he let them do to him and then remembers what he did. He remembers a bright light, a noble presence of peace and he remembers flying and then he remembers crying; crying as realization sunk in. He didn't know what was carrying him, but he saw Hell growing smaller underneath him, demonic fingers reaching towards him trying to pull him back down, but they couldn't reach high enough. He was being saved; he was being pulled from Hell, something was flying him out of Hell and he still hated flying, still was fucking terrified of it, but he was crying because he was being taken away from the one place he deserved to be.

"I've wondered the same thing for too many years," Dean says, swallowing.

Samandriel nods in understanding. He sighs and straightens up, tilting his chin towards the sky. "What is it you would have me do, Dean Winchester?"  
>Dean's eyes sting. "I need you to bring Raphael to me."<p>

Samandriel blinks and makes a small mewling noise. "Castiel was correct when he said you were stupidly impulsive. Dean. Raphael is the strongest force in Heaven. He is able to kill you with only a snap of his fingers. I cannot in good conscience let you put yourself in danger."

"You just said you would help me!"

"I will not help you get killed. Have you any idea how many of my brothers have died to Raphael's hand? It's innumerable. Your human brain would not be able to even begin to comprehend the lives lost. Castiel was very important to me and you were very important to him and I will not sit by idly, or worse, condone, you walking into danger."

"Why the hell not? It's my life! If I want to be stupid, I get to be stupid. If I want to walk to death, that's my choice!"

"No." A clap of thunder boomed; a flash of lightening raced across the sky. Dean sees Samandriel's wings on the ground, raised high above his head, stretching out ten feet each way. "I will not lose the last connection I have to my brother."

Dean understands. But, he still can't let go. "And I can't let the winged dick who killed him keep breathing. Alfie, please. I," Dean's voice cracks. "I don't wanna live in a world without Cas."

Samandriel looks like he's going to cry. It's the look Cas used to always get when he was down in the dumps. Eyes glazed over, lips stuck out in a gentle pout, an overall look of melancholy, but no tears ever fell.

"You lived many years before Castiel. You can live the rest of your life without him. He would want you to."

"No," Dean croaks. "I can't, Alfie. Cas took a part of me with him when he died."

"No he didn't. You are still you."

"He's in Heaven, right?" It's a burn that's been lingering on his heart and mind for over a year. "Crowley lied when he said he wasn't."

Samandriel looks up to the sky. His wing shadows relax. Dean can see each individual feather relax and unfurl. They're frayed, messy and tangled. "Father brought Castiel back from the dead the first time Raphael slew him. He brought Castiel back when Lucifer obliterated him. I believe there is a reason He did not resurrect Castiel a third time.

"You must understand, Dean Winchester. We are old. Infinitely old. Castiel was older than me, mind you, and I was there when Father breathed life into Adam. Just as humans wear down with age, so do we. There wasn't a moment in all of Castiel's existence when he wasn't a warrior. You should be able to emphasize with that, no? Castiel may have been a warrior in mind, but he wasn't one in heart. He always had too much heart and it always conflicted with everything he'd been taught. I think Castiel was tired of fighting. I think Father saw that and just as He has a plan for your kind, He must have a plan for us."

"That's a yes, right?" Dean asks.

Samandriel's eyes shine with a brilliant light and a shy smile dances on his lips. "Surely Castiel has been rewarded for his stupidity. Want kind of fool Falls from grace to oppose the Apocalypse, dies twice in his mission, but still succeeds isn't given a Heaven?"

"Did you just make a joke?"

"Not all of us are as hardnosed as Castiel."

Dean smiles. Hearing it from someone else, someone who surely knows more than he does, more than he could ever research, relaxes something in him he didn't know was twisted. "Thanks, Alfie."

The smile quickly melts from Samandriel's face. "Please do not do anything stupid. Don't let my brother's death be in vain."

And then with a flap of his wings, Samandriel is gone. Dean stands outside a bit longer, staring up at the sky and stars.

He wishes he could just let go like Samandriel wants. Too bad it's not in his genes. "Raphael!" He screams at the sky till his throat is raw. "Get your cowardly ass down here and talk to me! Dick!"

888888

Dean wishes he had his camera with him. This moment is surely picture perfect if such a thing exists. He doesn't think he's ever seen Cas this unamused and it's actually pretty funny.

"You called me for what?"

Dean clears his throat and sets up the shot glasses on the mini table in the hotel room. "For drinks."

Somewhere in the corner of the room, Sam is rolling his eyes. Dean doesn't need to see Sam's face to know what it looks like, it radiates off him like a bad smell. Bitch, he thinks bitterly.

"Dean," Cas says, in that exasperated, worn down, I'm-sick-of-your-shit tone he's been using so often these days, "I am in the middle of the most disastrous Heavenly war since Lucifer's Fall. I have angels looking to me for guidance on my right and angels who want to kill me on my left. Balthazar's breathing down my neck on one end, you're pulling down my collar at the other- I do not have time "for drinks"."

Dean adds tracking down the son of a bitch who taught Cas finger quotes and beating the crap out of him to his mental list of things-to-do. Then he realizes that Cas probably learned it from him, so he amends the note so that he'll just beat himself up later. "Is there some kind of celestial battle going on right now?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing. Sit down. We're gonna have fun tonight."

"Dean—"

"Told you this was a stupid idea," Sam says.

"Shut up, bitch," to Cas he turns and says, "Ten minutes. Please."

The eye roll Cas gives him in return he probably learned from Sam. Dean makes plans to beat Sam up when he beats himself up. But Cas begrudges him and sits down.

"Okay," Dean says as he pours himself and Cas a shot glass. "We're gonna play a game. Never Have I Ever."

"Oh my god," Sam whines, "Dean, don't turn the angel into a frat boy! That's, like, the eleventh commandment I'm sure. Thou shalt not partake in inebriation with an angel of the lord and play dumb college games. Look it up, it's in the Bible."

"What is a frat boy?" Cas asks.

"It's just a term for the guys who used to give Sam swirlyes back when he was a college dweeb."

Cas stares at him blankly. "What is a swirly?"

"Follow me, I'll show you."

"Dean!"

"Shut your face, Sammy, it was only a joke! Okay, Cas, here's how you play. I'll say something I've never done and if you have done it, you have to take a shot. If you haven't done it either, I take the shot. Then we switch. Like, never have I ever given an angel of the lord a swirly."

Cas blinks at him.

"Okay, you haven't done it, either. So I take the shot." He throws his head back and downs his drink, wincing as the burn runs down his throat. He coughs slightly. "So, now you say something you haven't ever done."

"Is the point of the game to suggest something you know your opponent has done?"

"If you wanna be a bastard about it, yeah."

"Oh. Okay. Um. Never have I ever participated in the exercise of human fornication."

Dean snorts, but takes his shot without complaint. His head begins to spin. Already? he thinks. "Uh, good. Well, okay, not good—not that you're not getting how to play the game, looks like you've got the hang of it. Don't worry buddy, we'll get you laid one of these days."

"I want nothing to do with this," Sam says.

Dean ignores him. "You're not allowed to die until you get laid, bud."

In any other situation, the look that appears on Cas's face would've been priceless. Who knew an angel was capable of total and complete abject terror—in the face of sex of all the things? "Dean, please do not take me to another den of iniquity."

"'Den of iniquity'?" Sam asks. "Does he mean a brothel? Dean, when did you take Cas to a brothel?"

Dean takes another shot just for the hell of it. "After Lucifer rose and you ditched us." He chortles at the memory; Cas trembling as Chasity ran her fingers across his clavicle, squeezing her arms together so that her boobs popped out of her shirt, Cas doing everything he could to look away. "You should've been there, Sam, he was this close to crying!"

"It was an incredibly traumatizing experience," Cas agrees.

"Dean! You tried to whore Cas out to a whore?"

"Whore's a bit a harsh, don't ya think Sammy? In the end, he made her cry to get out of it. We got kicked out." Dean laughs. "Best fifty bucks I've ever spent. Okay, so now that I know what game you're playing, never have I ever seen the Earth being created."

Cas still left his first shot untouched.

"Really dude?" Sam asks. "You weren't there when God created the Heavens and the Earth and all that?"

"No," Cas says. "Only the archangels were created on the First Day. I wasn't created until the Fifth. Although technically I suppose they weren't really days. Not how you count days anyway."

"Really? How long were the days actually?"

"A thousand years, more or less. Or so Gabriel claimed. He's not the most trustworthy to begin with, but neither Michael nor Lucifer ever denied what he said."

"Wow," Sam says.

Dean stares at Cas, his throat thick, because he's suddenly reminded of just old Castiel is. How much he's must have seen, Dean thinks.

"For someone older than dirt, literally," Dean says, "you sure haven't done much. You stink at this game." Dean's just avoiding having to take another shot because he's already hammered. It must be age finally getting to him. He used to be able to down half a dozen shots within an hour before his head spun, and that was with stuff much stronger than this. God, when did he become such a lightweight? He decides to silently blame Sam, because Sam's always bitched about his drinking and has not so discreetly left AA pamphlets in the car windshield before, or even worse, watered down his booze.

"My apologies," Cas says.

He's doing it again, staring off into space. He's there, but not actually there, flooded down by whatever worries and stresses have tied themselves to his ankles. They're pulling him down hard and fast and Dean wants nothing more than to dive in after Cas and help pull him up, breach the surface and just breath. But he can't chase after Cas fast enough; Cas is drowning faster than Dean can swim.

"What's wrong, Cas?" He asks.

Cas sighs and looks despondently at his shot glass before he downs it. "Raphael has called a ceasefire."

"That's good news, ain't it?"

"He has requested an audience with me to discuss…everything."

The bland, faded colors of the motel room are stripped away and all Dean can see is red; there's a loud thumping at the back of his head and he's not sure if it's because he's drunk or because he's angry or because of a combination of the two. "You're not going to go, are you?"

Cas circles the rim of his empty glass with his thumb.

"Cas."

"I have no other option, Dean. If I do not go, the fighting will resume and more of my brothers and sisters will die."

Dean gets it. He really does. He would do (and has done) anything for his family, the few people he's allowed into his life and heart. Cas is part of that now. Dean can't reprimand Cas for feeling the way he does, he'd be a hypocrite.

But he's angry. Damn it, why should Cas have to risk his life for the angels of all things? They aren't his family, not really. Not the way that Dean and Sam and Bobby are. The angels threw Cas out, kicked him to the curb, disowned him. They kidnapped and tortured him and they killed him and not one of them did a damn thing to help him. Why should Cas care about their lives when they didn't give a damn about his?

But.

Blood is blood. No matter what.

"You're angry with me," Cas says quietly.

"I'm not angry with you," Dean says, hurt that Cas feels that way. "I'm angry with the situation. I don't think you should go."

Cas. Alone. With Raphael. The being who currently wanted to kill him. The being who had killed him once before. It was a recipe for disaster. And death.

"I don't have a choice, Dean." Cas's voice raises in anger, frustration, weariness.

"Then we'll go with you."

The lights in the motel go off with a violent spark and it's all black for two heart beats before they come back on with a harsh whine.

"Absolutely not." Cas's voice booms with a ferocity that would make John Winchester crap his pants. It's authoritative, stern, and-if Dean is going to be completely honest—terrifying.

Cas sighs and his eyes soften. "I am doing this to protect you. The both of you. Being in the same vicinity of Raphael would be counterintuitive."

"I'm just worried about you, man."

"I know."

Dean swallows. "Promise me you won't go alone, at least. Take one of your angels pals with you. Your second in command guy, the douche bag—"

"Balthazar," Cas says.

"Yeah, him. He'll go with you, right?" Dean has only met Balthazar a few times. He hates the other angel with a passion. He's arrogant, rude, snarky, a plethora of sarcasm that knows no depths. But, he genuinely seems to care about Cas.

"If I were to ask him."

"Good," Dean says. "Then you'll ask him."

"But Balthazar has already sacrificed so much for me, Dean."

"I think he owes you for the whole faking his death thing."

Dean can't imagine anyone doing that to someone they loved. From what little he understood of Cas's relationship with Balthazar, they had been friends. _Best Friends._ Balthazar had been Cas's only friend in all of Heaven for all of forever before Cas went to Hell. And then Lucifer rose and Balthazar thought it the perfect time to ditch the Apocalypse (and Cas) and fuck around on Earth.

In the end, Balthazar left Cas, when Cas needed him most. Discovering Balthazar wasn't dead, but in fact alive and healthy, having the time of his existence partying and drinking and "fornicating" as Cas had put it, had devastated Cas.

There was no way around it, Balthazar owed Cas. If Cas was too chicken to cash in on that favor, Dean would have no issues doing for him. Maybe he'd punch Balthazar in the face while he was at it, just for good measure. The broken hand he'd get in the scuffle would so be worth it.

"Okay," Cas says in a sigh, "I will ask Balthazar."

Words echo inside Dean's mind, his confrontation with Raphael those months ago replaying in a loop. Cas would do anything Dean asked him. "You gonna fly off now?"

"Do you want me to "fly off"?"

"No." The word rolls of Dean's tongue faster than he likes. No, he doesn't want Cas to fly off, not ever. He wants Cas to stay and he wishes there was something he could do to make Cas stay. He'd tie Cas down and never let the fucker out of his sight to make sure Cas stayed.

But he couldn't do that. As much as Dean wants it, he knows that Cas couldn't stay. He has people to see, places to be, demons to smite and archangels to fight. Priorities above Dean. And they should be above Dean. Dean wasn't more important than a Heavenly Civil War; he already had free will, he didn't need it be taught to him like all the other angels. No, Cas was, in fact, the new sheriff in town and frankly the angels need him.

Dean needs him too (not that he'd admit it out loud) but in a different way. In a way that can wait. He likes to imagine that once this war is over and Cas had won (because would win damn it) that Cas would stay. Forever.

Good things come to those who wait. Dean can wait a little longer if it means in the long run that he can keep Cas forever.

"But," Dean says, "you're needed elsewhere. You've got more important places to be anyways."

"I promise, Dean," and there it is, that solemn, soul piercing gaze, that unwavering loyalty, that earnest sincerity. It's too much at once and Dean feels like it's choking him. That stare is the closest thing he's ever gonna get to see the real Cas, the being inside the meat suit that used to be James Novak. "When the war is over, I would very much like to stay here, with you and Sam. If that is all right."

It hurts that Cas feels like he has to ask permission to stay with them, but Dean can't blame him either. Dude got kicked out of the Heavenly Country Club he'd been a member of for fucking ever, Dean can understand where he might feel a little hesitant in feeling like part of a family again.

Still, this is a chick flick moment. Which Dean does not do. Especially when Sam is in the room, eavesdropping like the little bastard he is. "I don't know, man, you're gonna have to ask Sam about that one. You got hypoallergenic feathers, right? Brat's on some kind of health kick."

"Dean!" Sam yells from across the room. He sighs and Dean hears him close his laptop. "Don't mind him, Cas, he's just being a dumbass."

"Bitch."

"Asswad."

Cas watches the exchange with mild interest, but much confusion. Dean decides the first thing he's going to do is teach Cas how to properly prepare insults. It'll be a fun night.

But when Cas flinches and glances up the ceiling, Dean's heart sinks. There is no option to stay a little longer. The choice has just been taken away from Cas.

"You gotta go?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean sighs. "Nah, don't worry about it. Just. Be careful."

"Of course, Dean."

And then Cas is gone.

And Dean just knows he's going to have a bitch of a hangover in the morning.

8888888

He doesn't know what time it is, but he would recognize that sound anywhere. He shoots straight up, gun already in his hand out of habit and pointed at the noise. It's only with a miniscule shred of self control that he doesn't pull the trigger and put a bullet between Samandriel's eyes. Not that it'd hurt him, but it would definitely wake Sam and Bobby up and it would lead to a boiling conversation he doesn't want to have.

"Alfie," he groans, falling back onto the bed. The pillows and sheets bounce up with his applied weight and he glances over at the bedside clock to learn that it's just after two in the morning. "I didn't order a wake up call."

"I spoke with Raphael."

Dean's sitting up again.

Samandriel is tucked away into the corner of the room, but his gaze is as piercing as ever. His shoulders are drawn tightly together though; he's standing stiffer than usual and his feet are pointed inwards. Dean thinks the worst.

"Are you doing all right, Samandriel? You don't look so good."

"I am fine," he says through gritted teeth.

"No you ain't. Did you get reeducated again?"

"Raphael asked me to deliver a message to you, Dean," Samandriel says. Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Denial is confirmation.

"Yeah?" Dean smacks his lips. He's not going to make Samandriel talk about anything he doesn't want too. He's not going to point out the evasion. He knows better than anyone what torture is and what it does to a person. And an angel. (_angels). _Who is he to force Samandriel into that conversation, especially when Samandriel suffered it for him? "What'd Rat-phael says?"

"He says, 'Catch me if you can'."

Samandriel is gone. The air is left feeling thicker.


End file.
